Hesh Kestin - The Siege of Tel Aviv

“Contrails,” Smith says quietly.

“Yes, absolutely, Damian. They are disappearing to the—well, I can’t really tell what direction, but they’re becoming tiny dots on the horizon.”

“Connie, does anyone aboard the Star of Bethlehem know whose warplanes came to the defense of the aid flotilla?”

Her answer is drowned out by Captain Frank’s waa-waa-waa and then his amplified voice. “Attention all hands, attention all hands. This is Captain Frank. Belay all lifeboats. Repeat, belay all lifeboats. Crew, make fast all boats.”

CV Star of Bethlehem steams past the listing Egyptian frigate as its corvette escorts burn and lifeboats pick up survivors.

“To all hands: good job all around. Return to normal stations. Repeat: return to normal stations. Next stop, Tel Aviv!”

HAVING RETURNED FROM A three-day leave, in her quarters at USMA Forward Attack Squadron Wildcat Lieutenant Colonel Iris McKendrick, her hair in curlers, stubs out a Marlboro, then drains her shot glass. On the television screen before her, a CNN cameraman is panning CV Star of Bethlehem as its crew makes fast its lifeboats. Over the sound of the freighter’s ancient engines and the pounding of the waves can be heard the joyful song of the miraculously saved. As angry as she is, she cannot help but join in:

LIEUTENANT COLONEL MCKENDRICK IS not alone. The song, a staple of the Christian hymnal since it was composed in 1772, will become so popular that everyone from mezzo-sopranos to rap artists will cover it in the weeks ahead. Existing versions are already playing on radio stations while the soundtrack of the crew singing loops over and over again whenever television news reruns footage of the aid flotilla, which every television station outside the Muslim world does with great frequency. The song seems to have touched a nerve even with Russian and Chinese media, which up to this point have shown a sincere lack of interest in the tragedy unfolding in Tel Aviv.

That no onsite reportage emanates from the ghetto itself goes unmentioned even among the most sympathetic news outlets, which hardly wish to flaunt their impotence: so little news gets out of Muslim-controlled former Israel because news personnel find it impossible to get in. Journalists are summarily turned back at their home airports when they attempt to fly into Yasser Arafat International Airport, and the entirety of former Israel is sealed off from access by sea. Without a functioning Internet connection and no electricity to power short-wave broadcasts, Ghetto Tel Aviv is effectively cut off.

Only those governments with satellites have any idea what is going on in Tel Aviv or in the country’s huge prisoner of war camps. Primary among them is Washington.

IN THE WHITE HOUSE operations room, the president finds himself impressed by the day’s events in the eastern Mediterranean.

“Flo, didn’t I tell you those Israelians have an ace or two up their sleeve?” he says, tapping his foot to the sound of Amazing Grace playing on CNN. “Will you look at that footage. Our flyboys couldn’t do it better.”

“Should we not be concerned, sir? We had no intel. And still don’t.”

“Maybe not. But if IDF’s got three planes, they’ve got more, which means those Jews could deliver nuclear. We’d better give ’em that airlift. Anyhoo, there is no more Egyptian blockade.”

“Right on it, Mr. President.”

“And have Defense mix a little steel in with the vitamins. Other-wise that colored preacher…”

“Gerry Stallwell, sir.”

“Otherwise Pastor Gerry gonna piss on our parade.”

“Wise move, sir.”

“What I want to know is, how did we miss those F/A-18s? And why are they pink? Who knows what else those foxy kikes, no offense, got up their sleeve?”

“They’ve got nuclear, sir.”

“Well, send them that care package. Maybe they’ll take a Christian attitude if we send some aid. Forgive and forget. Turn the other cheek and all.”

AT MARINE FORWARD ATTACK Squadron Wildcat, high-pressure hoses blast the pink paint off the three F/A-18s, whose still-hot engines throw off a cloud of pink steam. In front of the planes on the tarmac, Jimbo, Chris, and Stan pose in their flight suits, their helmets tucked under their arms as Sergeant Major catches the moment with his cell phone camera.

“Sirs, respectfully suggest this here film not be shown in public for a good long while,” Sergeant Major tells them. “Like never.” He glances back at the base commandant’s quarters, whose windows overlook the tarmac. “Colonel’s reaction gonna be bad enough.”

“Wise advice, Sergeant Major,” Jimbo says.

Sergeant Major turns to his maintenance crew. “You handjobs swab my runway down so it’s as virginal as the entire fucking US Army. And once that’s done, you will not recall it ever happened! Semper fi!”

ON CV STAR OF Bethlehem , Connie Blunt stands with her back to the bow, beyond which in the distance the low white buildings and glass towers of Tel Aviv’s long shoreline glimmer in the sunlight. From this far away, it could be any beachfront city on the Mediterranean.

“Damian, what viewers are seeing over my shoulder is Tel Aviv, known as the White City. It must be a happier city if, as I hope, news has reached its people that aid is less than two hours away. We can’t be sure, of course, because as CNN has reported Tel Aviv remains cut off from effective communication with the outside world. But as this brave aid flotilla draws closer, there’s no doubt…”

SHE IS CORRECT. IN Yigal’s office on the fourth floor of the Isracorp building, the chief of staff’s spotters have already identified the ships steaming closer. Pinky is there, and Misha, who has taken to wearing a semi-automatic pistol on both hips. If he had a sheriff’s star, he would no doubt wear that. The two men seem to have reached a modus vivendi similar to that which appears to have become the rule in the ghetto now that there is a sense of order, if not law. They will never be friends, but they are allies, comrades in arms.

“We need to secure unloading,” Yigal says. “Hungry Jews get pushy at a bar mitzvah. These haven’t eaten properly for weeks.”

Misha looks offended. “What do you think we do all day? Already moving into place.”

“You knew the ships would get through?” Yigal asks.

“We plan for contingencies,” Pinky says.

“And I was going to shoot him in the nuts,” Misha mutters.

“Miracles have been known to happen in this neighborhood,” Pinky says. “Manna falling from the sky. A burning bush that isn’t consumed. The ten plagues—nobody expected that. And now… Kuwait.”

“This is going to work?”

“Yigal, their air force is just sitting there, sixty beautiful F/A-18s, barely used, low mileage, doing nobody any good.”

Misha snorts. “And they call me a thief?”

“So it’s a go?”

“I don’t have any other F/A-18s in my pocket,” Yigal says.

“In that case, Mr. Prime Minister, Mr. Minister of Police,” Pinky says, grinning for the first time in weeks. “The State of Israel is about to steal itself an air force.”

ON THE TARMAC AT Marine Forward Attack Squadron Wildcat, eighty-two officers and enlisted men are lined up at attention as Lieutenant Colonel I. C. McKendrick steps up on a wooden box. She has purposefully kept them waiting in the heat of this Middle Eastern afternoon. To underscore her disapproval, she informed her sergeant major not to offer the assembled Marines the solace of stand-at-ease. They have been at attention in the sun for twenty minutes. When she is sure the squadron has been sufficiently roasted, she signals the sergeant major with a nod.