Matt found himself in a spin and buried his foot in the rudder and held the stick all the way over against the spin. The spin slowed and he brought the nose up and they were climbing again. “No afterburners,” Furry said. “We’re dumping fuel like mad over the right wing. Okay, it’s slowing. The fuel-shutoff valves must be working.”
“Check the right wing,” Matt said, looking for Johar. Then he saw a parachute.
“SHIT-OH-DEAR!” Furry roared. “WE AIN’T GOT NO WING!”
The reports flooding into the command bunker told a story of success and a victory. Ben David could not contain his elation and had to move about, full of energy and resolve. When the Ganef told him that the Americans had destroyed the nerve gas arsenal at Kirkuk, he only jutted his jaw out and said nothing. His eyes scanned the situation maps in the front of the room and a new sense of justification and righteousness swept over him. The Arabs were surrendering in droves in both Jordan and on the Golan. Yes, he told himself, a major victory.
Only in Lebanon was the victory clouded and the fighting was still seesawing back and forth. Soon, he knew, he would be able to reinforce the beleaguered Israelis there and secure a total victory. Life was very sweet as he stared at the boards and plotted the future.
The minister of foreign affairs caught his attention. “Yair, I’ve received a communiqué from the United Nations. Thepressure for a cease-fire is overwhelming. We can’t ignore it any longer.”
“For twenty-four more hours we will,” he replied, his voice hard and unyielding. Twenty-four more hours and he would have a victory in the Lebanon, the elusive victory his predecessors had never found in 1982.
“Perhaps, Yair,” his minister of defense, Benjamin Yuriden, ventured, “this would be the best time to negotiate — while the Arabs can still tell their people they were winning someplace and it was not a cease-fire forced on them by a total defeat.”
“They won’t win anywhere!” Ben David shouted. “I will drive them into the desert and—”
“Negotiate now!” the Ganef interrupted. He grabbed the prime minister’s jaw and jerked his chin around, making him look at the “Status of Casualties” board on the side wall. “How much more can you ask of your people? How much more can they sacrifice?”
The numbers told a grim story and Ben David knew he was right — they had fought long enough. With a massive force of will, he drove his hatred back into its cage and became a politician again. “Arrange a cease-fire. Stabilize the Lebanon but do not attack. Halt all actions in Syria and Jordan and withdraw to defensible positions.” Then his eyes ran over the “Status of Casualties” board again. His people had indeed sacrificed more than enough and he did not have the right to ask for more.
“It seems to be stabilized around three hundred knots,” Matt said, still feeling out the controllability of the F-15. “Below two-fifty or above three-fifty, it wants to roll.”
“Right,” Furry said. “Some landing at this speed.”
“Want to eject?”
“No way. Not as long as it’s flyable. What the hell do we get paid for?”
Good question, Matt thought. Definitely not for flying on one wing. He checked his fuel. Nothing. The gauge was dead. “How far to Diyarbakir?” he asked.
“Fifty-five miles,” came the answer. “Eleven minutes. Think we got enough fuel?".
“Beats me,” Matt answered.
“What the hell,” Furry groused. “At least it’s a straight-in approach and they got a barrier there.”
“I wonder if our hook can take that kind of a shock,” Matt said.
“Let’s find out.”
The tower cleared them for a straight-in approach and Matt lined up on the runway. He tried to bleed off airspeed, but the moment he slowed below 270 knots, he could feel the jet start to roll into the missing wing. He rooted the airspeed on 280 and extended the landing gear. The nose gear doors blew away in the slipstream. Then he lowered the hook and touched down. The hook snared the arresting cable and they felt a hard jerk when the cable had fully paid out. The hook tore out and the F-15 kept on going down the runway at 160 knots. Matt stomped on top of the rudder pedals, dragging the big fighter to a halt. They were barely moving when they ran off the end of the runway and the nose gear collapsed in the soft dirt. The canopy popped open and the two men scrambled out, worried about a fire.
They skirted the aircraft, amazed at what had happened. “How in the hell?” Furry wondered.
“The engineers are going to have some fun figuring this one out,” Matt said. “My best guess is that the intakes give some lift and with the wing gone, that big horizontal stabilizer gets the full air flow and is very effective.”
“Just maybe,” Furry allowed, “this one wasn’t built by the lowest bidder.”
The blades of the helicopter were still slowly turning when the forward door opened and the steps dropped down. The President stepped down and automatically ducked his head, his long strides quickly covering the ground to the White House entrance. His face was worn and haggard, showing the strain of the last few days. The men following him were silent. Cox was waiting for him in the hall and also followed him down the stairs to the Hot Line. The general wanted to ask him about his wife but a mental warning kept him quiet.
Inside the room, the Teletype operator looked up. Pontowski put his hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Tell Secretary Stenilov that I’m here, Larry,” he said. The operator’s fingers flew over the keys.
The room was silent as they waited. Then the Teletype started to rattle again, this time printing in English:
“Mr. President, let us work together and end this madness in the Middle East.”
Shoshana lay on the ground in a state of deep shock. She wondered about the tanks that were now moving to the north. She held up her left hand and inspected the charred remains of her fingers. Two were missing but she didn’t feel a thing. In the distance, she could see tanks moving toward her. But these were more angular than T-72s and the set-back turret made her think of Merkavas. Oh, she thought, Merkavas. Ours. But it didn’t matter. Her war had finished when Levy’s Luck had run its course and the fire had cleansed her, burning away all that was wrong in her past. She was content as the warm, welcome fog of unconsciousness claimed her.
EPILOGUE
Pontowski sat beside his wife’s bed, wading through the thick read file that waited for him each morning. But he couldn’t concentrate and dropped the file into his lap. He looked at his sleeping wife and a slight smile cracked his tired face. Lupus, the disease they called the wolf, had released its hold on her and again she was in remission, but this time seriously weakened by the damage it had done to her heart. He saw an eyelid flutter. “Quit faking it, Tosh. I know you’re awake.”
Her eyes slowly opened, blinking against the soft light that filled the hospital room. Her hand reached out for his. “I do love you,” she said. For a few moments they did not move or talk, sharing the moment of another morning. “You did it? Stopped the fighting?”
“For now. It was touch and go.”
“And Matt?”
“He’s alive and well. In Israel. Looking for a Shoshana Tamir. He says he’s going to marry her.”
She squeezed his hand. “Then we may have grandchildren yet.”