The Hot Pilots (39 page)

“This way no other sentries will challenge us,” Dov said.

They drove a few more kilometers, rounded another bend in the road, and the air base came into view. The setup reminded Steve
of the rugged, World War II frontline bases the Seabees had racheted together for the Marine VMF and the USAAF fighter squadrons
in the Pacific. The Israeli base’s facilities were spread out, to decrease the likelihood of losing everything in an air attack.
Hidden among the groves of trees was a squat, prefab, flight control/operations complex surrounded by skeletal radar and radio
towers, and a half dozen low-slung airplane hangars. Camouflage netting strung high from poles and tree branches formed a
protective canopy over the vehicle and airplane parking areas. As they drove past, Steve heard the high-pitched whistle of
a jet engine, and saw a dun-colored, delta-winged, Tyran II fighter emblazoned with the blue and white, six-pointed Star of
David taxiing out from beneath the netting, toward the concrete runways.

“She’s a beauty, isn’t she?” Dov asked, gesturing toward the plane.

“You bet.” Steve glanced at him. “I never asked you, Dov. Are you a pilot?”

“No,” the Israeli said sadly. “I wish I were. Like most of us in the Air Force I tried to take the training—we need fighter
pilots desperately—but I washed out. So I serve in administration.”

“You live here full time?”

“No, only the pilots and maintenance crews live here,” Dov said. “Over there on the other side of the control tower are a
number of flower gardens. Interspersed among them are the living quarters.”

“Who did all the landscaping?” Steve asked.

“The pilots and the air crews, of course,” Dov said, sounding as if he’d been surprised by the question. “They do it in their
spare time.”

“I can’t imagine American Air Force personnel spending their off-duty hours gardening,” Steve said, amused.

“Here, we’re glad to do it,” Dov replied seriously as he pulled up in front of a tan-painted hangar. He shut off the motor
and then turned slightly in his seat to face Steve. “You see, we
never
tire of tending to our country. For so very long we didn’t have one, so now we don’t take anything for granted.”

“I understand,” Steve said softly, feeling a bit ashamed about all the things that Americans took for granted.

“Well, you go on into the hangar and take your first look at the MIG,” Dov said. “I’ll run over to Operations and let them
know you’re here.”

Steve got out of the car and went into the open hangar. His heart was pounding with excitement. She was there, all right,
caged beneath the ceiling lights—

A M1G-21
—The delta-winged beauty was the latest brilliant product of the awesome collaboration between Artem Mioyan and Mikhail Gurevich,
Russia’s premier aircraft designers. It was the MIG-21 that was the burr under the blankets of the Thud drivers and Phantom
crews in Vietnam’s mist-shrouded skies, and until now, U.S. Intelligence had been forced to make do with grainy, blurred,
recon photos of the Soviets’ most advanced war bird on the ground or in flight—

Until now
—

Steve slowly walked around the MIG, luxuriating in the opportunity to meticulously look her over. It was hard to concentrate;
he couldn’t believe his luck. To a fighter jock there could be nothing more desirable than being given the opportunity to
check out the competition …

Steve heard a car pulling up outside the hangar.
Probably Dov, come back to hijack me to some boring briefing
, he thought, and hurried to finish his preliminary inspection.

The MIG’s exterior was drab gray. She had until very recently belonged to the Iraqi Air Force, but now that country’s insignia
had been expunged from the MIG’s wings and fuselage, replaced by the Star of David. She was just a bit over fifty feet long,
with a stubby, twenty-four-foot wingspan. Like earlier series MIGs, the 21 had a wide snout that served to duct air to her
engine, but unlike any other jet fighter that Steve had seen, the 21 had a conical radar pod protruding out of the nose duct’s
center, the way the ink tip protrudes from out of the barrel of a retractable ballpoint pen. Her canopy was unique as well.
It was neither bubble-shaped like earlier MIGs, nor the teardrop design favored by most U.S. fighter designers. Instead, the
21’s canopy extended flush and level from the jet’s dorsal spine.

A questionable design choice
, Steve thought.
Sure, drag would be somewhat reduced, but rearward visibility would be poor to nil, and in a fighter, visibility was life
—

“Well? What do you think?” A male voice demanded from the hangar’s doorway. “Is she everything you thought she’d be, and more?”

Steve whirled around in disbelief. “Benny?” he called out. “Benny Detkin—?”

Benny came over to embrace Steve. He was wearing gray wool trousers, a tan shirt, and a pine green pullover sweater. Steve
thought his old friend’s short-cut, thick black hair was only slightly more seeded with gray than the last time they’d met.

“Welcome to Israel—” Benny said. “Or should I say shalom, old buddy?”

“You can say anything you want,” Steve shot back fondly. “As long as you also say what the hell you’re
doing
here—”

“And just look at that jacket you’re wearing!” Benny was laughing. “Man, that old A-2 brings back memories! I don’t have mine
anymore,” he complained. “Amy threw it out on me when I wasn’t looking.”

“That’s what you get for being married, but you still haven’t told me why you’re here. Are you on vacation, or here for some
kind of charity work?”

Steve knew that Benny was a big wheel in stateside Jewish philanthropies, and pro-Israel political lobbies, but he realized
none of that would explain what his friend was doing wandering around this supposedly top-secret air base…

“This is going to be hard for me to explain, Steve …” Benny awkwardly began. Just then Dov Sachar stepped into the hangar.

“Excuse me …” Dov called out. “Colonel?”

“
Yes?
” Both Steve and Benny said in unison.

“Sorry.” Dov smiled. “I meant Colonel Detkin …”

“You meant
who?
” Steve blurted weakly, staring at Benny.

“Major Yakkov has a little more paperwork to get out of the way but promised to meet you in the mess,” Sachar continued.

“Thanks, Dov,” Benny replied.

“What the fuck are you a colonel
of?
” Steve demanded as Dov left the hangar.

“Of the Israeli Air Force …” Benny said.

“You can’t be! You’re an American citizen—”

“It gets worse, old buddy,” Benny reluctantly confessed. “I’m also in the Mossad.”

“I became a Reserve Status IAF colonel, and a Mossad agent, five years ago,” Benny was telling Steve.

It was late afternoon. The two men were seated at a table in the largely deserted air base mess. There were mugs of strong
tea, and slices of honey cake on the table in front of them, but Steve, despite the fact that he was tired and hungry, hadn’t
touched the food. He was too pissed off to eat.

“You see, I already had the perfect cover,” Benny continued. “Over the years I’d established a legitimate history of traveling
frequently to Israel on behalf of various causes—”

“All of which are totally legal, aboveboard activities,” Steve sharply interrupted. “Endeavors protected by the U.S. Constitution,
which by the way, specifically condemns what you’ve done …”

“Why are you sounding so angry?” Benny asked mildly.

“I find out my best friend is a fucking foreign spy, why shouldn’t I be angry?”

“I’m
not
a spy,” Benny said patiently.

“I thought you were an
American!
”

“I am—”

“Oh yeah? Answer me this,” Steve demanded. “If there was a war between Israel and America, on whose side would you be on?”

“That’s a stupid question …” Benny grumbled.

“You mean it’s one you can’t answer.”

“Look, Steve, I’m telling you that I’m not a spy. I’m a—” Benny paused. “I guess you’d call me
a fixer
… I smooth things out, put people in touch with one another. Get things done—”

“
Illegal
things!” Steve scowled, lighting a cigarette.

“Things like getting your father to cooperate in smuggling the Vector-A systems to Israel,” Benny quietly amended.

“Yeah, and that was against the law—and you a lawyer!”

“Technically, yes, like most of what I do for Israel, the Vector-A project was against United States law,” Benny admitted.
“But if we asked your father, I think he’d agree that we were conducting ourselves according to a higher moral imperative.
This is not a game where Israel can play by the rules. Survival is what’s at stake.”

“Oh, man—” Steve winced, disgusted. “Don’t you
see?
The Arabs could say that, as well …”

“Listen a minute,” Benny insisted. “You read the papers, you watch the news on television. You know the score. For a year
now the border skirmishes between the Arab states and Israel have been increasing. Now, once again, our old Egyptian friend
Nasser is rattling his saber, making speeches to his Arab neighbors about how it’s time to make another stab at driving the
Israelis into the sea.”

“That’s why the U.N. is here,” Steve said.

“The U.N. can’t be depended on,” Benny countered. “Last month this country defended itself by striking at a Jordanian village
from which Arab guerillas were conducting border raids. For that, Israel received an official censure from the U.N., but nobody
is censuring the Arabs. Believe me, when Nasser says jump, the only question the U.N. will ask is how high. When the Arabs
are ready for war, the peace-keeping force will pull out, and Israel will once again be on its own.”

“You keep referring to the Israelis as ‘they’ and ‘them,’” Steve observed. “Don’t you consider yourself an Israeli?”

“Of course I don’t,” Benny said. “Why would I? I’m an American. Sure, I love what Israel stands for, but I also love my native
country. I’ve tried to serve America all my life. I served her in war, as you well know—”

“Sure, I know that, Benny,” Steve sighed.

“—and I truly believe I’m serving America now, by aiding Israel. Israel is America’s only steadfast ally in this part of the
world.”

“I can’t argue with that, either.”

“So?” Benny smiled tentatively. “You still mad?”

“No … I was never
mad
, I was just …” Steve trailed off, not knowing how to explain it, and not sure he wanted to. As a warrior he’d always seen
things in black and white: America was right and everyone else was wrong,
period
. That mindset had held up through World War II, and against the Commies in Korea, but it had started to become unglued after
his experience in Vietnam. Now, hearing about what Benny had been up to all these years, he no longer knew what to think.
Benny had broken the law, and yet he knew his old friend to be a stand-up guy … Maybe there
wasn’t
always a right and a wrong side to things. Maybe the end sometimes
did
justify the means …

“Anyway, you should be glad I’m in the Mossad,” Benny was saying. “It was my contacts in the organization that allowed me
to persuade the Israeli Air Force that you should be the one sent to check out the MIG.”

“So
you’re
the one who set that up?” Steve said.

Benny nodded. “When I first brought up with you the idea of smuggling Vector-A systems into Israel, I did promise you that
you’d be paid back if you relayed Israel’s interest in the matter to your father…”

“So you got me this assignment.”

“You are my best friend.” Benny smiled. “I figured this opportunity would make you happy…”

“It does,” Steve acknowledged.

“It’s making the United States happy, as well,” Benny added. “I told you that I consider what I do to be of benefit to both
America and Israel. I would never betray the United States—”

“You don’t have to prove anything to me, Benny,” Steve stopped him. “Forget I said anything, okay? I mean, what the hell do
I know? I’m no one to judge you. You live your life the way you think is right.” He shook his head. “I guess I’m just getting
old … The only time I can make sense out of anything these days is when I’m in a cockpit.”

“What do you mean
these
days?” Benny joked, and they both laughed.

“But speaking of flying, that reminds me,” Steve said. “What’s this about you being in the Israeli Air Force?”

“Like I said, only as a Reserve officer,” Benny explained. “And even that is on a quasi-official status, but having access
to Air Force headquarters in Tel Aviv has made my work easier. Most everything I’ve done for Israel has concerned aviation.
And there’s one other aspect to it. You know that here fighter pilots are in very short supply—”

“Yeah, I heard this country’s hurting for jet jockeys.”

“I felt that I should lend my expertise in that area,” Benny continued. “I’ve helped to formulate a training program, and
now and then I keep my hand in by leading a training flight.”

“You checked out on the Tyran II?” Steve asked.

“Oh, sure,” Benny said proudly, and then smiled. “Maybe you and I can do a little mock dogfighting? If you’re not too scared,
that is …”

“Scared? Of you? I’ll wax your ass,” Steve growled.

“Oh yeah? You wouldn’t want to bet your flight jacket on that, would you?”

“I would, but what do you have valuable enough to put up against it?” Steve demanded.

Benny was looking past Steve. “We’ll have to continue this another time. Here’s Captain Yakkov—”

Steve, glancing over his shoulder, did a double take. The captain so purposely striding toward their table was a stunningly
beautiful dark-haired woman in her late twenties or early thirties. She was tall, with legs that seemed to go on forever,
and looked lean and muscular except for her ripe breasts. She was wearing a khaki uniform: snug-fitting trousers and an open-necked
shirt with a cloth flight jacket over her shoulders. Her captain’s bars were pinned to the jacket’s epaulets.