The Hot Pilots (45 page)

“I know all that,” Steve cut him off.

“You do?” Benny asked skeptically.

“More or less.” Steve shrugged. “Look, I’ve got to get home.”

“Are you sure?” Benny asked.

“What do you mean, am I sure?” Steve echoed, pausing to stare at his friend. “Of course I am. My father needs me—”

“You can’t do anything for your father by his bedside,” Benny said. “But you can do a lot for him here.”

“What are you talking about?” Steve impatiently demanded.

“Listen,” Benny urgently began. “It’s been decided. Tomorrow morning Israel is making the first move. The IAF will execute
a preemptory strike against all the Arab air bases.”

“Jesus, that’s a lot of targets spread out over a wide area. It’ll take all your airplanes to pull it off.”

“They know.”

“It will leave Israel’s airspace virtually defenseless.”

“They know that, too.” Benny nodded. “But they feel it is worth the gamble, and I agree with them. The odds against the IAF
will be overwhelming if it allows the Arabs to get their planes off the ground. They feel the only way to take control of
the sky is to destroy those MIGs and bombers while they’re still parked.”

“Okay, but what does that have to do with me?” Steve asked. “My part’s done. I’ve trained your guys to the best of my ability.”

“The IAF would like you to stay, in case this gamble doesn’t work. They feel that your experience would be of great value
in deciding how to utilize whatever remaining airplanes they’ll have left if the Arabs do manage to take to the sky.”

“Please try to understand, Benny.” Steve frowned. “It’s hard for me to concentrate on this with my father lying in a hospital
bed.”

“Your sister said the doctors thought he was going to be all right,” Benny argued.

“Sure, that’s what the doctors
think
, but what if they’re wrong?” Steve countered. “Benny, he’s my father. There are things I want to tell him; this might be
my last chance.”

“Forgive me for speaking bluntly, but there’s little time,” Benny began. “If you stay another few days, and your father lives
as is expected, you’ll have the chance to tell him what’s in your heart. But if you stay, and God forbid he should die before
you get home, think about what he would tell you to do, if he only could. You just heard from your sister that your father
wishes to devote his future to his religion. You already know that Herman Gold has worked very hard for Israel’s survival.
Taking all that into account, don’t you think you would be telling him quite a lot about how much you love him by remaining
here, furthering his work on Israel’s behalf in its time of need—?”

Steve nodded uncertainly. He’d been in touch with Washington through a continuing exchange of coded cables. Back in May, when
the news about the U.N. pulling out was breaking, Steve had asked for permission to continue training the IAF pilots. Washington
had been quick to agree. The most recent cable he’d received just a couple of days ago relayed orders for him to cooperate
with the Israelis in every way possible short of actually entering into combat. Of course, he knew that those orders would
be rescinded if he were to plead personal hardship concerning his father…

“Think a moment on what I’ve said, and you’ll realize that I’m right,” Benny was telling him. “Your father risked his reputation
and freedom to work for Israel. I’m sure that right now he is very proud to know that his son is doing the same.”

If that’s true, and I think it is
, Steve mused,
I know what might make him even happier
—

“Okay, I’ll stay,” Steve said. “On one condition … We give my Pop a
real
Bar Mitzvah present.”

“What are you talking about?” Benny asked, perplexed.

“Come on.” Steve smiled. “I’ll tell you on the way. If this raid is happening in just a few hours from now we’d better get
over to the base—”

Dawn was brightening the Mediterranean sky as the coded word went out from IAF headquarters to the secret air base where Steve
and Benny were waiting, and to similar bases all around the outskirts of Tel Aviv. The preemptive strike would begin at 0745
hours.

Inside the brightly lit Operations Complex’s main briefing room, Steve and Benny stood staring at a large map of the area,
along with the twelve Tyran II pilots in khaki flight suits who were scheduled to fly. IAF Captain Rivka Yakkov was there
as well. She was looking pale and somber, her uniform uncharacteristically rumpled, and her eyes still puffy from sleep. Like
most of the administrative and operations people assigned to this base, she had been awakened just a few hours ago by an IAF
courier banging on her door with the news that war was about to begin.

Steve took a moment to look over the pilots as the briefing began. He’d trained every one of them, and dozens more assigned
to other bases. He’d done the best he could to give them the advantage of his hard-won, aerial combat experience.

“Here are your targets,” Rivka was saying, using a pointer to indicate the Egyptian air bases at Abu Fayid, on the Sinai Peninsula’s
Mediterranean coast; and at Suez, on the far side of the Gulf. The briefing was being conducted in English for Steve’s benefit,
so that he could participate if he wished by giving some last-minute observations or suggestions to the men. The pilots were
all proficient in English; that had been a prerequisite, practical necessity for participating in Steve’s training program.

“… The eight aircraft of Flight Orange and Flight Blue will attack Abu Fayid,” Rivka was continuing. “Flight Yellow’s four
planes will join with other flights from other bases to attack Suez. You’ll find the specifics of your missions in your briefing
kits …”

“We’ll need auxiliary fuel tanks to reach the Suez,” observed the leader of Flight Yellow.

“Call them
drop
tanks,” Steve interrupted. “And remember to
drop
them if you have to, dammit. To hell with the cost—”

“I’ve learned that lesson.” Flight Yellow’s lead pilot nodded, smiling. He was the pimply-faced kid who Steve had outfoxed
in the mock dogfight back in February.

“The other two flights won’t need drop tanks,” another pilot murmured. “Abu Fayid is no more than fifteen minutes’ flight
time from Tel Aviv—”

“And it’s no more than fifteen minutes from Abu Fayid
to
Tel Aviv, should you leave any MIGs or bombers there intact,” Rivka added meaningfully. “Each Tyran will be carrying two,
five-hundred-pound bombs which are to be used to destroy the Arab runways. After you have released your ordnance you will
use your cannons to strafe. Are there any questions?”

The pilots were shaking their heads.

“Don’t forget what I’ve taught you guys,” Steve said. “Don’t make me look bad.” He winked. “I used this as my home base, so
I expect a little more from all of you. Don’t let me down—”

“Good luck, and God go with you,” Rivka said, glancing at the bank of clocks on the briefing room’s wall. “The nation’s hopes
rest in your hands.”

The pilots were busy gathering up their charts and briefing papers. Steve waited until Rivka’s back was turned, and then touched
Benny’s arm. “Let’s go,” he whispered. Together they slipped out of the briefing room and left the Operations Complex.

Outside the base was stirring with commotion. The quiet dawn was being shattered by the banshee wail of taxiing fighters,
and the air stank from jet fuel vapors and diesel fumes. Ground crew chiefs were running around screaming in Hebrew at their
people. Ordnance carts were hauling bombs toward the ready line, and pilots were double-timing it to the personal equipment
shack. Steve and Benny headed that way, as well.

“I don’t know how I let you talk me into this,” Benny was complaining.

“I talked you into it because you
wanted
me to talk you into it.” Steve chuckled. “You should have seen the gleam in your eye when I first suggested it …”

“I just can’t believe we’re really going to do this,” Benny grumbled. “Me, a lawyer from New York, and you, a United States
Air Force colonel, flying a combat mission on behalf of Israel—”

“Keep your voice down,” Steve hissed. “We aren’t flying yet, and we won’t be if you announce it to the world!” Steve slapped
Benny on the back. See that? There they are, waiting for us just like I said they would be …”

A pair of young pilots assigned to Flight Blue were nervously loitering outside the personal equipment shack. Steve, after
checking the flight roster to learn who was scheduled to fly, had cornered these two earlier this morning to ask if they would
allow Benny and him to take their places on the air strike. Of course, they were initially horrified at the idea, but after
Steve had leaned on them awhile they’d relented.

He’d known they would because Steve had once been in their shoes. As a young apprentice fighter jock he remembered how he’d
idolized the older, more experienced guys who had a seemingly impossible to match number of kills under their belts. Steve
remembered how those top dogs, top guns had enjoyed a mesmerizing hold over him …

But that was all yesterday. Since then the years had flown by with the speed of an F-105 Thunderchief hugging the deck on
a strafing run. To the Israeli pilots who Steve had so recently shepherded through the sky,
he
was now top dog. To them, he was the quintessential fighter jock: an ace in two wars, a veteran of three. Steve had arrived
here a legend to the fledgling IAF fighter pilots, had proved himself by mastering the intricacies of the MIG-21, and had
stayed to become their mentor. He had taken them under his wing and taught them everything. In return, his protégés would
do anything for him … As these two pilots so anxiously fidgeting outside the personal equipment shack were now about to prove—

“Shalom, Colonel Gold, Colonel Detkin,” one of them said softly.

“Yeah, shalom, boys.” Steve nodded. “You’re both clear on what you’re supposed to do, right?”

“Just as you told us, Colonel, sir.” The pilot nodded as he and the other IAF flier handed Steve and Benny their briefing
kits. “We will go directly to our quarters and stay there. You two will come to us directly upon returning and prep us for
the mission debriefing.”

“You got it, boys.” Steve nodded. “Don’t worry. It’ll go smooth as silk. Now beat it.”

The two pilots quickly walked away. Steve watched as they took the long way around to get to their quarters without going
near the Operations/Administration complex. Once they’d disappeared into the trees, he said, “Well, that’s that—”

“I sure hope they’ll be all right,” Benny said worriedly.

“They will be. First of all, we’re not going to get caught. And second of all, even if we do get caught, we’ll take the heat,
not them.”

“And what will happen to us?” Benny demanded.

“Nothing.” Steve shrugged. “I hope …”

“I just hope you know what
we’re
doing—”

“Benny, I may not always know what I’m doing, but I always do what I want.” Steve laughed. “Like I told you before, my father
is going to appreciate the fact that I’ll be able to give him a firsthand account of how the Vector-A system works in a real
combat situation, and he’ll flip when he hears that I flew this mission to honor him. You said yourself that he’s solidly
in Israel’s corner—”

“I have a big mouth,” Benny said morosely.

“Just think how pleased my father’s gonna be when he finds out that his flesh and blood actually struck a blow on Israel’s
behalf.”

“Have you picked up enough Hebrew to get yourself through the preflight check?” Benny asked.

“I ought to have; I’ve heard these guys go through it enough times.”

“Just remember that once we’re in the air, if you can’t say it in Hebrew, then don’t say it at all. If the Arabs or Soviets
monitoring our transmissions should get wind that Americans are involved in this …”

“I know, I know.” Steve nodded. “We’ll be in deep shit with both the Israeli and United States Governments.”

The two men stood to one side as the pilots filed out of the shack. The IAF fliers were loaded down with flight gear, and
were wearing helmets, dangling oxygen masks, and sunglasses.

When the last man was out, Steve and Benny ducked inside. They quickly donned the khaki flight suits and gear they’d been
issued for the training program. A few moments later, two more pilots, their faces masked by helmets and sunglasses, came
out of the shack. Silently, these last two members of Flight Blue joined their comrades who were just now climbing into the
droning Tyran IIs trembling in readiness on the flight line.

At 0745 hours the twelve Tyran IIs thundered aloft. The four jets of Yellow Flight banked away to begin their journey to Suez.
The remaining eight arranged themselves into groups of four, with Orange Flight in the lead, and then banked west, curving
far out over the sparkling blue Mediterranean.

This is gonna work out fine, I can feel it
, Steve thought. He was flying as Blue Flight’s number three man, the element lead. Benny Detkin was flying as his wingman.
The weather was perfect. The morning sun had burned away the dawn haze to reign supreme; a blazing fireball hanging in a flawless,
turquoise sky.

The idea to wait until a quarter to eight in the morning to launch the attack was a brilliant one. Surprise raids paradoxically
traditionally took place at dawn, so by now the Egyptians would most likely have called in their own, early morning combat
air patrols. With any luck, the Egyptian radar operators sitting at their consoles would assume that these eight Israeli planes
flying out to sea were on just another routine training run. Steve himself had many times taken his students out over the
sea to practice combat maneuvers.

Meanwhile, Steve’s own surprise scheme seemed to be turning out well. The preflight check had gone without a hitch, and now
his Tyran II felt rock solid in the air; as comfortably familiar as his old leather flight jacket. He was positive that nobody
suspected that he and Benny had tagged along. Mission protocol was contributing to his strategy: Strict radio silence was
in effect.