A fair-haired man insisted upon using the radio first, yelling into the mouthpiece as loudly as he had upon the deck, and then Baxeter snatched it away from him but spoke in more controlled tones than the other man, forceful reason against inconsiderate anger. From the transmitter came a flurry of questions and although she could not understand the language Janet was able to discern three different voices and guessed the concern would be as great in Israel as it appeared aboard this bizarre boat. First Baxeter responded, then the fair-haired man, then Baxeter again: the transmission ended with the fair-haired commando throwing down a pencil in disgust and stumping past her. Janet was near the doorway and he actually attempted to collide with her but at the last minute she went further sideways into the shack and he missed. Janet, who was pleased, hoped Baxeter had seen.
“You won?” guessed Janet.
“You can come,” agreed Baxeter. “I have to face an internal inquiry when it’s all over.”
“I’ m sorry.”
“I hope I’m not.”
The engines’ heavy bubble became within moments the roar of throttles being opened as the patrol boat unexpectedly lifted on its stern and hurtled forwards, smashing through the water. There was no warning of the acceleration and both she and Baxeter stumbled backwards: he managed to grab a support rail and then snatched out for her, stopping her falling.
“An expression of displeasure,” said Baxeter. “You’re very much resented.”
“I’m an expert at resentment,” said Janet. She had to shout to make herself heard over the engine scream.
Baxeter did not try to talk. He pulled her from the radio room out on to the deck and then through a small housing covering some steps. He went down ahead of her, calling out in advance what she guessed to be some sort of warning of their approach. There were about eight men below, in the mess area: it smelled of stale cigarette smoke and bodies too close together for too long. The men regarded them sullenly, without any greeting: the vehement radio protestor was not one of them.
Baxeter went through the mess to a bunk area further back, groped in a locker and handed her a pair of the black coveralls that were clearly the regulation dress. He said: “I think they’re the smallest.”
Janet stood looking uncertainly down at the suit. It felt like a rubberized material, tight at the wrists and ankles, and lined with a silk-like materiaclass="underline" closer she saw that the hood was wired, with earpieces inside, so that the wearer could be linked up to a communications system.
“How do I wear it?” she asked Baxeter. “Over my own clothes?” She had on her much-worn jeans, shirt, and sneakers.
“You can try but you’ll be damned hot,” said the Israeli. “If you take them off don’t expect the courtesy of their turning their backs; it’ll be part of making you feel unwelcome.”
Janet stripped to her pants and bra, not brazenly but not embarrassed either, her back defiantly to them: the overalls were big but wearable. Baxeter changed too, facing her with seeming indifference to her taking off her clothes. Baxeter indicated a seat at the far end of the table around which the other men sat and said: “It’ll be better if you get off your feet: you can very easily become exhausted constantly bracing yourself against the pitch and roll of this thing.”
She said: “How long?”
“Not more than an hour,” assured Baxeter. “This is the fastest incursion boat we’ve got.”
“What about the American fleet?” asked Janet. “Won’t they be between us?”
“They’re further north, nearer the Turkish coast.”
“What about their radar?”
The Israeli smiled at her naivete. “There are more baffling and confusing devices aboard than most other countries, including those in the West, know we have invented.”
Janet looked along the table. “Isn’t this division a bit unnecessary?”
“Not to men like these,” said Baxeter. “They work in groups, teams that take months to train together. They think like each other, react like each other, know each other. That way they stay alive. An intrusion, like you, throws the synchronization out. Because you’re here they think they might get killed.”
“I didn’t understand,” said Janet, deflated.
“That’s why they’re not accepting you: won’t accept you.”
“What about when we get ashore?”
“You’re my responsibility,” said Baxeter.
“Your burden?” suggested Janet, trying for a more accurate word.
“You speak Hebrew?”
“No,” she said.
He smiled, briefly. “That was the word Tel Aviv used to describe you.”
There was the soft noise of muffled descent on the rubberized companionway and the fair-haired man came into view, carrying a snakes’ nest of radio links. He handed them out individually to the waiting men and then stayed by them, staring down at Baxeter and Janet. There was a curt question to which Baxeter replied with equal curtness: two of the seated men sniggered and Janet guessed Baxeter had scored with his retort because the man flushed, slightly, and tossed one of the connectors towards him. Baxeter caught it easily.
“There’s no purpose in your having a headset,” said Baxeter. “It’s minimal communication anyway, it’s in Hebrew and it’s coded. Just understand one thing. Don’t ever lose me. Don’t get separated, and don’t fall back into one of the other groups: they’ll either intentionally abandon you-or kill you.”
“You’re joking!”
“That’s their training, to kill or be killed,” insisted Baxeter. “You’re as near to being an enemy as makes no difference.”
Janet tried to subdue her shudder but couldn’t: Baxeter was connecting his radio links, intent on the hood of his uniform, and Janet did not think he’d seen her reaction. In case he had, she said: “It frightens me, this matter-of-factness.”
“It’s meant to.”
There was a perceptible reduction in engine power. Baxeter called out to the other end of the table and one of the men replied, in agreement. Baxeter said: “We’re getting close: they’ll be putting out a lot of deceptive electronics now and transferring to a much quieter engine. We’ll do the last mile by rubber dinghy.”
There was a curt, tin-voiced order over the tannoy and the men began to assemble, picking up weapons and multi-pocketed rucksacks. There were eight of them, and Janet watched fascinated as they formed up in two lines of four, one man facing another, each reaching out and touching the one opposite, checking off equipment and packs, each ensuring that the other had overlooked nothing. Synchronized teams, she remembered. Baxeter had to prepare himself alone and Janet wished she could have helped him: closer she saw all the buckles and fastenings were rubber that would make no noise under movement.
By the time they reached the deck the dinghies had been dropped overboard, six of them, trailed by short lines along the sides of the now barely moving patrol vessel. Janet made out eight men additional to those in the mess from which they’d just come. Again the entry was perfectly coordinated. Groups of four dropped without any apparent instruction in perfect order into their boats-eight commandoes to each boat-and towed off the one behind them, empty, to make room for the next entry. Janet and Baxeter were allocated the last boat: everyone else was inboard and she felt them watching for her to stumble and make a fool of herself. She hit the slatted bottom unsteadily but retained her balance and managed to sit without any need for help. She would have liked to see their disappointment, but it was too dark.
The dinghy churned away from its mother ship and Janet looked curiously to its stern, where a single coxswain hunched at the tiller. There was the foam of a wake but hardly any noise at all. She decided the engine had to be electric, so quiet was it: a line of propellers dropped straight into the water from a straight-bar assembly, and Janet was reminded of the food blender in the kitchen of her Rosslyn apartment.