Hesh Kestin - The Siege of Tel Aviv

“Well, I’ve been an ER nurse for twenty years. I guess that’s why I’m aboard. Kind of a just-in-case thing. Never been out of the US ever. We don’t get too many big ships in Nevada.”

“Well, Mary Beth, let’s hope your services are not required. And you, young man. I can see you’re not a churchgoer.”

In the studio, unseen, Damian Smith cringes.

“You mean because of this little thing on my head? Yeah, there’s a large Jewish contingent, more on the other ships. William J. Hurwitz. Billy. I’m a student at Jewish Theological Seminary in New York. Can I give a shoutout?”

“Fire away, Billy.”

Billy waves, only his fingers moving. “Just want to say hi to my mom and dad in Albuquerque, my baby sister Simone, and all the crew at JTS, especially my Talmud teacher, Rabbi Wolfe, and my girlfriend, Ruthie. Mom and Dad, this may come as a shock, but before I signed on I… Ruthie said yes!”

Applause and whoops rise from the larger group behind him, which the camera pans.

“Anything else?”

“Ruthie, I love you!”

More applause. Someone lets out a two-finger whistle.

“And why are you here, Billy?”

The young man seems momentarily at a loss. “I guess if you were Jewish, you wouldn’t have to ask.” He suppresses the urge to tear up, then looks around. “Or Christian. Which reminds me. Don’t worry, Mom, Dad—Ruthie’s one hundred percent kosher!”

“Congrats, Billy—and Ruthie. Or should I say mazel tov ? Which brings us to a young man you wouldn’t normally think would be on this ship going to the aid of Tel Aviv. Young fella, what’s your name?”

“Mohammed Said. Mo. I’m from Detroit. Dearborn, actually. And I’m here representing the Palestinian community of Michigan, to protest the mistreatment of the Palestinian people by the Arab and Iranian invaders.”

“Fascinating, Mohammed.”

“Mo.”

“Mo it is. I see you’ve got something prepared.”

The kid raises a hand-written sheet, which he holds in front of him with difficulty as the wind pushes it back. “Seventy years after losing our land to the Jewish State, my people has again lost its land, this time to fellow Muslims. As usual the world ignores the suffering of the Palestinian people.” He looks up to see how much he can get away with. “Just another few words?”

“Go ahead, Mo.”

“On behalf of the Palestinian community of Michigan, I have joined this humanitarian effort in hope the Palestinian and Israeli peoples can work together to defeat the foreign invaders so that our two nations can live together in peace.”

He is so relieved to have delivered the message he lets go the paper. It flies up, then back, rising over the bridge, and disappears.

“Wow. Mo, that was impressive. Is there anything you’d like to add?”

“Well, as everybody knows, tomorrow the University of Michigan plays Texas A&M in the Gator Bowl.”

“Yes?” Blunt says.

Mo opens his jacket to reveal a U of M t-shirt.

“Go Wolverines!”

Her cameraman closes tight on Blunt. “En route to Tel Aviv aboard the CV Star of Bethlehem , where spirits are high, I’m Connie Blunt.”

ON A MOUNTAIN ROAD in Syrian-occupied territory outside of Jerusalem, an olive-green Cadillac flying the pennant of the Egyptian headquarters staff passes two Bedouin flying little more than donkey stink. If the young colonel driving the staff car could see their faces, which he cannot because he too is going west, he might note their eyes turn suddenly down and their chins tuck into their kaffiyehs as they urge their donkeys further off the road.

Alex checks the gas gauge the way every driver running out of gas does, hoping that somehow the needle will point up. The needle has its own opinion. About five kilometers back, the warning light came on. Since then he passed two Syrian bases, which no doubt have petrol pumps, but the same general staff insignia that permits him to sail through roadblocks would no doubt get him invited to coffee or even lunch with the Syrian base commander. Alex’s Arabic is properly inflected, but unfortunately he has the vocabulary of a ten-year-old, his age when his Egyptian-born mother, who raised him speaking Arabic, died. He is considering trying his luck at a Syrian base when a small gas station comes up on the right.

A young Arab mechanic is working on a car when he pulls up. The teenager wipes his hands on his trousers and comes out with a big smile. “Welcome, general.”

“Premium, please,” Alex says with great relief. “Fill it up. And if you have a jerry can, I’ll have that full of gas as well.”

“Regrettably we have no premium, excellency.”

“Regular, then.”

“Nor that, general. We expect a delivery at any moment.”

“And how long have you been expecting a delivery at any moment?”

“Oh, several weeks, excellency,” the kid says. He points to the east with a grease-darkened finger. “You must go back one kilometer, then left at the church. At the next building, ask for Abu-Yunis. He may have a small amount.”

IN THE CNN NEWSROOM, Damian Smith runs methodically through today’s top stories, none of them happy. In TV news, everyone else’s tragedy is meat and potatoes. On the big screen behind him is a long shot of a red rescue helicopter hovering alongside a snow-covered mountain. “Meanwhile,” Damian reads, “The search for those missing climbers has been called off as fog continues to close in on Mt. McKinley. Efforts are expected to resume as weather permits.” He adjusts his earphone, leaning forward slightly in the atavistic gesture all networks train their anchors to stifle. The effort is futile. When humans don’t hear well, we lean in. “In breaking news, warships of the Egyptian Navy are reportedly moving to intercept that Christian aid flotilla en route to Tel Aviv. Andrew Lagonis is live at the Pentagon. Andy?”

Lagonis, a sixty-five-year-old leftover from the glory days of network news, is doing a hasty stand-up in a Pentagon corridor while behind him uniformed officers cross hurriedly back and forth. Lagonis is breathless with the scoop.

“Damian, that’s right. I’ve just gotten word an Egyptian naval taskforce is indeed moving to head off those six aid ships, many of whose passengers and crew are American. Sources here say US initiatives to convince the Egyptians to turn back have been unsuccessful. So far we don’t know if Egypt aims to intercept the ships or, in the worst case, fire upon them. One thing is certain: the aid flotilla is on a collision course with the biggest guns in the Egyptian Navy.”

IN THE MASSAGE CABIN of Air Force One, a navy corpsman works on the president’s back while the leader of the free world, prone on the padded table, becomes increasingly more tense.

“Well, what the fuck does the damn press expect us to do? Go to war with the entire Middle East?”

Flo Spier, out of the burqa and into a red jogging outfit, stands to the side with Felix George, who wears a three-piece suit and his usual look of disdain. “They are American citizens, sir.”

“They’re damn fool American citizens mixing themselves up where they got no beeswax.”

“Mr. President, the simple takeaway is American citizens on a humanitarian mission are about to be attacked. It’s not going to play well on TV. They’re flying the American flag.”

“Illegally on non-US vessels,” St. George says.

“I’m talking optics, Mr. President,” Spier counters.

The president is having none of it. “And I’m talking pissed off. You mean to tell me the US of A is got to send in the Marines every time some lunatic bible-thumper inserts his dick in a foreign war? Isn’t there some law, Felix?”