Firebreak (32 page)

Without being told, Halaby reversed the tank, backing over the ridge. As they came down the slope, a wire-guided Sagger missile hit their front right track and exploded, blowing their track off the front idler. Halaby still had enough momentum and control to back the tank down a few more feet before they came to a halt.

The commands came quick and furious as Bielski traversed the turret and sought out the BMP that had launched the missile at them. Finally, the tank quieted and only the harsh noises of the radio filled the turret. Levy keyed his mike and spoke to his platoon before he popped the hatch and scanned the killing field in front of him with binoculars. Satisfied they were safe, he ordered the other tank commanders and squad leaders from the APCs to gather around his tank while he established contact with his company’s command post. As expected, his orders were to hold and stand by for orders.

Bielski and Halaby were examining the battle damage to the tank when Avner slid down to the ground. “Where the hell are we?” he asked, trying to get his bearings.

“Apparently stuck in the middle of nowhere all by ourselves,” Bielski said.

“Now what the hell are we going to do now?” Avner grumbled.

“Get a new tank,” Bielski said. “This one is going to take some major repairs before it moves again.”

Avner spun around and glared at Halaby. “Damn you! You were never ordered to go over the ridge. If you had stayed on this side, we would’ve never taken that last hit. You’re a jinx, Halaby.”

Nazzi Halaby shrugged, his way of fending off the heavy-set, nineteen-year-old Avner. Then a thought occurred to him. “You’re still alive, aren’t you?”

Fraser was standing in front of the President’s desk, waiting to escort him down to the Situation Room in the basement. Pontowski stood up and led the way as Fraser’s short legs tried to match his long strides. “Who’s giving the briefing today?” he asked.

“William Hogan from the CIA,” Fraser told him.

“When will BUI Carroll be back?”

“He won’t, Mr. President.” Pontowski raised an eyebrow and Fraser knew an explanation was in order. It was die moment he had been waiting for. “We had him checked out and discovered he had an unauthorized contact with Mossad.”

“Was he working for Mossad?” Pontowski asked.

“No, just talking to them when he shouldn’t. Rather than take chances, we pulled his clearance and put him out to pasture. We’re still watching him. By the way, another interesting connection showed up.” They were almost to the Situation Room. “Carroll has been talking to Melissa.”

Pontowski paused at the doorway and stared at Fraser. He humphed and walked through. Inside, the National Security Council, along with the director of central intelligence and the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, were standing, waiting for him. The CIA briefer, William Hogan, was standing nervously beside a set of briefing charts. Pontowski nodded and sat down. Everyone but Hogan shuffled into his chair. “Mr. Hogan, I hope you have some good news for us,” Pontowski said.

“I wish I did, Mr. President.” With that, he started his briefing on the latest installment of the Arab-Israeli conflict. In a few words and with three charts, he summarized the situation. Fraser relaxed into his chair next to the wall and made desultory notes, easily splitting his attention. The Israelis are going to take a beating on this one, he thought. That should make B. J. Allison and her Arab buddies happy.

Matt’s name caught Fraser’s attention and he focused on the speaker, Admiral Scovill, the JCS Chairman. “Our air attaché has found Captain Pontowski and Major Furry and they are providing us with the best intelligence we have from inside Israel. It’s all in Colonel Gold’s latest report. We’re talking a gold mine here.” Scovill looked over his reading glasses. “Pun intended, sir. The intelligence is so good that our ambassador has requested that we make them official observers and give them diplomatic status.”

“Too many political liabilities,” the secretary of state said. “Your grandson as an official observer could be read as a personal commitment to the Israelis. And it is dangerous. If he were taken hostage or killed …” He let the thought trail off.

“Recommendations?” Pontowski asked.

The room was split evenly on the question. Finally, only the director of central intelligence, Bobby Burke, remained to be heard from. “I think they should stay in place. The Israelis are famous for crying wolf to get more arms and aid. With a good source of intelligence, we can better judge what they really need and just how bad the situation is.”

“If the ambassador wants them, he’s got them for now,” Pontowski said. “If they are taken as hostages, nothing special.” The men and women in the room could see the pain of that decision in the President’s eyes. “Next item. Are we making headway in the UN to get the fighting stopped?”

The secretary of state knew the question was for him. “No, sir,” he answered. “The Arab bloc of nations senses a victory and is stalling. Winning is a new sensation for them and they are collecting on every favor and debt owed them for support. There won’t be any progress in the UN until the Israelis start to win.”

Silence came down heavy in the room. “So the question is,” Pontowski said, “should we start the resupply of Israel now?” This time, the room was unanimous that a resupply of arms had to begin immediately. Especially urgent was the need for more Patriot, TOW antitank, and Stinger surface-to-air missiles.

“Mr. President,” the secretary of state counseled, “I agree that we need to start now. But, what we are sending Israel will be used against a very important client state of the Soviet Union. Given the turmoil going on inside the Kremlin, we had better tell the Russians what we’re doing and send them reassuring words that we will not let Israel defeat Syria. God only knows how the hard-liners will react if they see a threat to their interests. We could be playing right into their hands and give the hawks in the Kremlin an excuse for a military coup. They ‘re not above using an external threat as a reason for reestablishing a dictatorship. If they have their way, this fighting could jump the firebreak we’ve got around it now. We don’t want to turn this into a wider, regional war.”

Pontowski sat for a few minutes thinking about the options open to him. There was little doubt that the United States had to react now or that Israel would be overrun, and that he could not allow. But what were the Egyptians and Iraqis up to? Would they come into the war? What would the Israelis do once they were on the offensive? Yair Ben David was a tough old bird with a belief in vengeance and a deep-seated hatred of Arabs. What end game would the Russians accept? Was there anyone in charge in the Kremlin? Were the Syrians acting as a wild card on their own? Too many questions and no answers, he thought. Well, this is what I was elected to do, what I wanted to do.

“Mr. President?” It was the secretary of state. “Since the Soviet ambassador has been recalled home, may I suggest we use the Hot Line to establish contact and relay our intentions before we start resupply operations?” He pushed a sheet of paper across the table to Pontowski. “I’ve taken the liberty of drafting a message.” The Hot Line was not a voice link with the Kremlin’s leaders but a Teletype. “Also, perhaps we should send our own Russian translation with it so that … ah”—he sought the right diplomatic words but gave up—“the dumb bastards don’t get it wrong.”

The President read the message. It was concise, to the point, and made it very clear that the United States would cut off the flow of arms and material once the fighting had stopped and a return to the status quo had been achieved. “Get it translated and on the wires,” he ordered. He rose and walked back to the Oval Office, mulling over how and when to tell his wife that Matt was still in harm’s way.

“Sit down, Tom.” Pontowski waved Fraser to the couch and slumped in his own leather-covered chair. He spun and looked out the window, not seeing the President’s Park stretched out before him. This has got to be the loneliest job in the world, he thought. And it doesn’t help with Tosh coming out of remission. Lupus was rampaging through her body, this time attacking her heart, killing his wife, his Mend, lover, and best counselor. Suddenly, he felt very old.

“Mr. President?” It was Fraser bringing him back to the moment. Strange, he thought, how much I rely on Fraser and I don’t even particularly like him. “Shall I order you some lunch?” Pontowski nodded. Before Fraser could pick the phone up, it rang. The President nodded and Fraser answered it. His face visibly paled as he listened. “The Hot Line is down,” Fraser said, “no one is acknowledging our calls.”

“That’s not good,” Pontowski said. He sank back into his chair, considering the implications. The crisis in the Kremlin had gone critical and he was making decisions in the dark, not knowing how the Russians would react, not able to cable them his intentions. “How many Russian advisers are there in Syria?” he asked.

“Over fifteen hundred at the last count,” Fraser replied. “Our weapons are going to kill some of them,” the President predicted.

What I don’t know will kill us, Moshe Levy thought as he watched his platoon consolidate their position. He had hated ordering one of the other tank crews to switch tanks with him, but as the platoon’s commander he had to have mobility if he was to survive and get them to safety. His old tank was mostly hull-down behind the ridge and still capable of using its main gun. But if the Syrians attacked, it would be the first target. It amazed him how the other tank crew had readily accepted the change. Even Avner had commented on it and said that he would not obey that order. Levy had let it go.

The tank crews were finished with redistributing their remaining ammunition, and the squads in the M113 armored personnel carriers had dismounted and deployed along the low ridge that reached west out of the mountains and ran down to the sea to form the border between Israel and Lebanon. One of the squad leaders had suggested that they deploy recon/observation teams on the flanks and send a two-man scout team forward as soon as it was fully dark. Levy readily agreed. When he turned his attention back to his tank, he found Dave Bielski and another gunner boresighting the main gun. “The thermal sight is kaput,” Bielski told him. Their night fighting capability would now depend on how good their backup infrared sight was. I wish the old crew had told me about that, Levy thought. I’ve got a lot to learn.

He checked on Halaby and found him alone under the tank, tensioning the tracks. It was a two-man job and Avner should have been helping him. Levy searched the growing darkness until he found his loader, eating behind a rock outcropping. He took a great deal of pleasure in kicking him into action and sending him over the help Halaby. I shouldn’t have done that, he berated himself.

Darkness had settled over the ridge and Levy forced himself to maintain a listening watch on the radios. He badly wanted to check in and find out what was going on, but he knew that the longer the pause in fighting, the greater the chance of the Syrians’ using radio direction finders to pinpoint his position. Then he could expect an artillery barrage. He rummaged around in the tank until he found his night vision goggles. I’ve got to get organized, he thought, but I don’t seem to have enough time. He had never imagined that one of the main problems a commander had was time management. Why hadn’t someone told him that?

When Levy had the bulky goggled that resembled a squashed set of binoculars strapped to his head, he scrambled to the crest of the ridge and scanned the slope in front of him. Nothing. Then he turned and looked down the reverse slope to check his own disposition again. To the south, behind them, he could see movement of greenish images. Were they surrounded? Isolated? For a moment, he would’ve sworn that his heart was in his throat. Then he saw the distinctive image of an M88 tank recovery vehicle emerge from the dust. He couldn’t credit how gracefully the fifty-seven-ton monster moved, almost floating, then plowing over the terrain, leaving a feather wake of dust behind it. His heart found its proper place and he watched six Merkava tanks supported by a dozen of the heavily armored Centurion tanks that had been converted to APCs sweep toward him. It looked like an armored brigade was coming to the rescue.

Twenty minutes later, Levy was standing by the center hatch at the back of a Merkava tank as an
aluf mishneh,
or colonel, crawled out of the crew compartment. The colonel was in command of the brigade and using the Merkava as his command vehicle. “Congratulations,” he said, pumping Levy’s hand. “Our attack was turning into a complete disaster until you swung right and cleared this ridge. Apparently, the Syrians were going to use it to anchor an attack on our flank but thought better of it when you magically appeared.”

Levy thought about how easily they had taken the ridge. “I don’t think the Syrians were much sold on the idea,” he said.

“Obviously, you changed their minds. Our latest reconnaissance shows they’re pulling back, probably to reconstitute. We’re moving forward until we come in contact to keep the pressure on them.” He studied the map one of his staff handed him. “This looks like a good place for my headquarters. Moshe, you saved our ass on this one.”

So now I’m a hero because of pure dumb luck, Levy thought.

“I’ve forwarded a recommendation that you be promoted to
segen,”
the colonel said. “Division will approve when they hear what you did here.”

Levy’s mouth fell open. A
segen
was a first lieutenant and at the rate he was going, he’d make captain in a week. And that meant command of a company, which he definitely did not want.

The word that Tosh Pontowski was very ill again swept through the White House, casting a dark cloud over the entire staff. For those who knew what lupus could do, the news was especially grim and they struggled with their emotions, trying to soldier on as Tosh would have wanted. Even Zack Pontowski’s political enemies, men who contested with him over every major issue and election, sent their best wishes and hopes for a speedy recovery to the White House. The President’s wife was loved and respected.

Melissa Courtney-Smith had shed her tears in private and thought she was in full control when the President walked through her office. Without thinking, she stood up, wanting to say something, to offer hope. But the words weren’t there. Pontowski nodded at her, acknowledging the unspoken words between them. He paused before leaving. “We need to talk.” He nodded toward his office and she followed him. Once inside and alone, he motioned to a couch and sat down beside her. “Melissa, what have you and Bill Carroll be talking about?”

Her first impulse was to ask him how he knew about her and Bill. But Melissa knew he would not tell her. “About the Arab-Israeli war. Bill is very worried and claims the Iraqis will come in with the Syrians. He says the Arabs are whipping their people up for a
jihad
and if a cease-fire can’t be negotiated within a few days, the Arabs might win.”

Pontowski stared at his hands. “Why did he tell you?”

Melissa knew that they had come to the heart of the matter and that by rights, the President should fire her for meddling in affairs that didn’t concern her. But she wasn’t about to lie or try to hide what she had done. “Because Bill doesn’t think you’re getting the full picture, that internal prejudices in the CIA and politics are filtering out key items.”

“Where is Carroll getting his information from?” the President asked. Stan Abbott, the head of the Secret Service, had already supplied him with the answer. He was probing to see if she was playing the same type of games.

“From Mossad.”

“Perhaps,” Pontowski said, reassured by her honest answer, “the Israelis have their own special filters in place and want to feed us information to meet their own ends. Making sense out of the mass of information that floods into our intelligence agencies is a nightmare that I wouldn’t wish on any sane individual. Someone has to interpret it all and try to put it into a larger framework. I suppose that’s when a person needs an opinion—if you will, a view of the world—to filter and winnow facts.”

He smiled at his favorite secretary. “I know you don’t like or trust Tom Fraser and probably think he’s pushing for the oil interests in all this. But have you ever thought why I selected him for my chief of staff?”

Again, he had surprised her. Melissa thought she had worked very hard to hide her dislike of the man. She shook her head. “I never did understand why you did that.”

“Because he’s a wheeler-dealer, a hatchet man who scares people. He’s my point man and does all the heavy blocking for me. With him as the bad guy, I get to play the good guy. Melissa, I know where he’s coming from. He’s in it because he savors power. Also, he understands me and, more importantly, knows his limits.” Pontowski squeezed her hand. “Go on back to work, Melissa. Keep sending me memos when you think it’s necessary and let me worry about playing political games.”

Melissa felt like crying for so badly underestimating the man. She smiled weakly at him and stood up.

“Melissa, who should I get to replace Bill on the NSC?”

“General Leo Cox,” she answered.

“Please tell Tom to come on in.” He watched her go. Oh, Melissa, he thought, if only you knew. I use Fraser like I use you. Without him, my campaign would have gone broke in the early days of the primaries. Without a bastard like him to dig the money out, launder it, and then pump it into the campaign, the opposition would have swamped me. You have no idea how hard it was to find him; a man not afraid to act on his own, not involve me, and smart enough not to get caught. But I’ll burn him at the stake if I have to. What a popular sacrifice that would be and I can climb total innocence, the abused party betrayed by his friends now setting things right.

Matthew Zachary Pontowski, the President of the United States, could play hardball politics when he had to for he was a political animal, something his wife knew and understood.

Fraser stood in the doorway, waiting to be recognized. Pontowski heaved himself to his feet and walked over to his desk. “Who’s first on the agenda?”

“A delegation from the Hill.” He named two senators and three representatives.

“The Israeli lobby,” Pontowski said. “I’ve been expecting them. Show ‘em in.”

The senior senator heading the small congressional delegation that looked after the interest of Israel in the U.S. Congress was satisfied by what he was learning. Now if he could just get the junior congressman to shut up, they could gracefully bow out of the Oval Office and get back to work.

“Mr. President,” the young congressman said, “we appreciate that you have opened up the supply channels to Israel. But I’m telling you, it only amounts to tokenism and is not nearly enough to replace the losses in equipment the IDF has suffered.”

Pontowski stared at the young man, willing him to silence. It worked. “I don’t mind repeating myself. Like I said when we last met, I will not let Israel be destroyed or occupied by its enemies. Apparently, that promise isn’t enough for you. But I urge you to remember that there are other problems-”

“Which you’re using as a smokescreen to avoid committing the necessary support to save Israel,” the congressman said, interrupting him.

“Mr. President, let me apologize for my colleague,” the old senator said. He made a mental promise to teach the loudmouthed new kid a few political manners.

“John, it’s not necessary,” Pontowski smiled. “I was young once.”

“Don’t patronize me,” the congressman said, slightly more in control.

“I must take the reaction of the oil-producing Arab states and the Soviets into account when I make any move in this war,” Pontowski explained. “Unfortunately, no one is answering the telephone in the Kremlin now and we can’t tell them what our intentions are. So our actions must speak louder than words or the Soviets might overreact. We do not want to give the hard-liners in the Kremlin-the ammunition they need to come out on top. We must not embarrass the Soviets or, even now, we could find ourselves staring down each other’s gun barrels.”

“Mr. President, I don’t give a damn what you say because I think you’re more concerned with what the oil sheiks will do and are using the Soviets as an excuse to not intervene. The invasion of Kuwait and our reaction marked the turning point in our Middle Eastern policies. You’re sacrificing our only worthwhile ally, the only truly democratic state in the Middle East on an oil barrel. And I’m going to prove it.”

Pontowski’s blue eyes turned crystal hard. “Ah yes, the question about illegal campaign funds. Please tell me what you find. I’d like to get to the bottom of it myself.”

The old senator decided it was time to intervene. “Mr. President, thank you for your time.” Within a few minutes, the delegation had been ushered out and were waiting for their limousines to take them back to their offices. The old senator invited the junior congressman to ride with him. It was not a request and inside the cocoon of his car, the old man pulled off his gloves. “Son, you’re suffering a terminal case of the stupids. Zack Pontowski knows what he’s doing. Now you get your act together or I’m going to rip your balls off.”

“But …"the congressman stammered.

“There aren’t any ‘buts,’ “ the senator said. “Do you remember his saying actions must speak louder than words? Just why do you think Zack has left his only grandson in Israel? Learn to read the signs boy, or you’re dead in this town.”

The USAF colonel who headed the advance party setting up MAC’S airlift command post at Ben Guiron Airport reminded Matt of a hyperactive chimpanzee in rut he had once seen in a zoo. The man was all action and totally out of his element. While Matt piloted the embassy staff car through the oiganized chaos on the ramp at the airport, Furry sat beside him going through the charade of making notes as the colonel spewed orders from the backseat.

“I want that section of the ramp reserved for our aircraft,” the colonel said, “and that hangar as a temporary warehouse where we can inventory all arriving cargo prior to signing it over to the Israelis.”

A sardonic grin played across Furry’s mouth that he took care to hide from the colonel. “I’ll see what I can arrange, Colonel Walters.”

“Don’t see, do it,” Walters barked. He leaned forward in the seat, trying to be conciliatory. “Look, I know you tactical fighter types aren’t used to dealing with MAC, but we run the show based on accountability and flying safety. When that first C-Five lands, I’ll show you how it’s done. We’ll get the cargo offloaded, debrief the crew, and if the plane is code one for maintenance, we’ll get a fresh crew out of crew rest and fly her out of here. We’ll do the whole turnaround in less than three hours. We’ll process the cargo and have it ready for release by tomorrow. Colonel Gold at the embassy is an old MAC hand and that will impress the hell out of him.”

Furry scribbled a note on his pad for Matt to see. The wizzo was of the opinion that the Israelis would not be impressed. But since this was the first assignment Gold had sent them on, neither said a word. The colonel had a lot to learn.

A dirty van drove up and a haggard-looking Israeli lieutenant colonel climbed out. He identified himself as the ramp marshal responsible for unloading cargo planes and clearing the ramp as quickly as possible for the next inbound aircraft. Colonel Walters bridled at his abrupt manner and tried to explain that he was responsible for all MAC aircraft on the ground. The Israeli logistics officer ignored him and acknowledged a call on the van’s radio. Then he pointed to the west. Approaching the airport at four hundred feet and three hundred knots was a C-5.