Hesh Kestin - The Siege of Tel Aviv

By contrast, the sign over the security checkpoint leading into the airport itself is a freshly painted red and black over a dazzling white, the color of the Egyptian flags that line the long drive to the terminal buildings. These flags caused yet another dispute among the nations: should not all the victors’ flags be flown here, at the gateway to the holy land? But the Egyptians are adamant that the airport is as much part of Egypt as Alexandria or Aswan. Did not the Egyptians demand their national banners be flown beside the Jordanian flags over Jerusalem? And what was the answer of the Jordanians under whose aegis it has fallen?

Though united in religion—except for the Sunni-Shia rift, which remains persistently in the background—the administrators of the former State of Israel are hardly of one mind on how it is to be governed. In the north, the Syrians and Iraqis continue stealing everything not bolted down; in the east, Jordan concentrates on renaming in Arabic all of Jerusalem’s streets; to the south, Egypt, seeing itself as the legitimate heir of the ancient land from which its Hebrew slaves escaped, are determined to make the farmland of former Israel an Egyptian garden, irrigated by Israel’s National Water Carrier originating in the Galilee—but in the north, Syria and Iraq immediately redirected the water to their own countries. In retaliation, Egypt closed to those countries the port of Ashdod, and refused to use its Mediterranean fleet to help clear the wreckage of scuttled Israeli vessels from the Syrian-controlled port of Haifa.

If defeat is an orphan, the many fathers of the victory over Israel have settled in for the same sort of dyspeptic discord that marked the neighborhood for centuries as stubbornly unstable, virulently fanatic and rabidly chaotic.

In keeping with its sense of pride in controlling the aerial gateway to former Israel, Egypt makes it a point of honor that Yasser Arafat International Airport be as presentable as it was under the Jews. The entryway is repainted daily, as are the red and white markings on the black asphalt leading to the checkpoint, whose military personnel are as polished and pressed as the Egyptian president’s own palace guard. However, these soldiers have little to do other than look spectacularly turned out. Under the Israelis, the checkpoint was manned by Border Police, a no-nonsense entity whose soldiers thought nothing of searching a suspect vehicle for an hour before admitting it to the airport proper. But now there is no threat of terrorism.

As a result, the Humvee-flanked convey of buses carrying Reconnaissance Group Gamal is waved through without so much as a pause for rudimentary questioning. The soldiers at the checkpoint might just as well be the Queen’s Guard that pretends, for tourism’s sake, to protect Buckingham Palace, unmoving, unswerving, unnecessary for anything other than showing up.

The convoy proceeds slowly down the mile-long approach road until a point where the road bends around to the left. The convoy does not bend around to the left. It continues straight on, tearing through the chain-link fence that cordons off the runway, where a Kuwait Airways 717 warms up for takeoff.

In a matter of seconds, the soldiers of Reconnaissance Group Gamal are out of their buses and surrounding the plane. Using a nautical loud-hailer, their commander barks an order in Arabic-accented English to the curious captain peering out through his port window.

“Kuwait Airways captain, you are commanded to lower stairs for security inspection.”

The captain slides open the window, managing to get most of his head out. He has red hair and a pug nose, so that when he twists through the opening his aviator glasses slip down and he has to force his arm through the open window to adjust them. “Only three passengers aboard, colonel,” he shouts. He is clearly an American from the deep South. “They’ve cleared security.”

“Kuwait captain, lower stairs!”

The captain has been through this before. He has been flying in the Arab world for twenty years. It is always something. In a minute, the oval door of the 717 opens. The Kuwait Air captain has a schedule to keep.

In a flash, half the Egyptian force has scrambled up the aluminum stairs and are moving from the first-class cabin straight through to the rear. There is no one in the rear. In first class, the commandos secure the crew and the plane’s only passengers, a blond woman and two men.

“What the hell’s going on?” Connie Blunt wants to know.

The Egyptian commander does not even hear her. “Passports, please,” he says in Arabic.

Connie just looks at him.

The Egyptian commander tries English. “Passports, please. This is a security check.”

“Aw, fuck. Your people have inspected us three times.”

Connie’s producer is not happy. For fear of terrorism leaking from the Middle East, only Muslim countries and Russia and China are accepting flights from Yasser Arafat International. There are no direct flights to the US. “Look, we’ve a real tight window in Kuwait for our flight to Atlanta.”

The Egyptian commander can barely restrain a smile as he returns the passports. He then removes his Egyptian uniform shirt, under which is an IDF shirt rolled up tightly over his biceps.

“Atlanta?” Col. Lior says. “I am afraid you may miss that connection.”

The second half of the crew in the buses now clambers aboard, removing their uniforms to reveal Israel Air Force flight suits. They pile their Egyptian uniforms into a rear toilet.

Col. Lior moves forward with two of the IAF officers.

“Captain, I have the pleasure of introducing you to your new first officer, Major Halevy, and navigator, Lieutenant Marks. Your crew will fly this flight as passengers. This ship has been commandeered by the Israel Defense Force, which expects you to cooperate in every way on your regularly scheduled flight.”

“You are fucking kidding me.”

Lior unholsters his pistol and puts it directly to the head of the Kuwait Air copilot. “Anything other than full cooperation will result in summary execution of your aircrew, beginning with senior personnel and proceeding down the line. In case you believe yourself to be safe, please be aware that three of my men are reserve Israel Air Force officers who regularly fly 717s as commercial pilots. Yes or no, do I have your cooperation?”

“What d’ya say your name was?” the captain asks, so quietly it comes out a hoarse whisper.

“Col. Lior.”

“Well, colonel. Just so’s y’all keep from killin’ my people, you got my word I’ll fly this crate to hell and back.”

Col. Lior nods. “That, captain,” he says, “is precisely our flight plan.”

“Roger that, colonel.” He switches on the cabin loudspeakers. “Good morning, folks, this is your captain speaking. We’re cleared for takeoff here at Yasser Arafat International and after some delay, which you may have noticed, or caused, we’re now taxiing for takeoff. Weather is clear all the way through to Kuwait City, cloud cover high and light. So far as we can see, we’ve got great flying weather ahead, so settle back in your seats, pay attention to the instructions of our chief steward, Ms. Peggy Springfield, and her wonderful cabin crew, and have yourselves a great flight this morning on Kuwait Air 201. Our estimated time of arrival is 10:23 AM Kuwait time, God willing. Now y’all relax and have yourselves a real nice flight.”

BECAUSE THE PRESIDENT IS a country boy at heart, or sincerely believes he is, he likes to get out of the District of Columbia as often as possible, especially in summer. The presidential retreat at Camp David, Maryland, is an hour’s drive from the White House, but only ten minutes by helicopter. The president’s schedule over this weekend, as printed by his private secretary, is as follows: