Erich Segal - The Class

“I’ll wager they’ve got any drug you have in the West. Try and stump me if you can.”

He had made it easy for George, who had, of course, memorized the relevant pharmacology.

“How about Adriamycine, cisplatin, and Cytoxan, for example?”

“Certainly obtainable when the circumstances call for them.”

“I’m very impressed,” said George.

And both gamesmen knew it was time to switch to other topics.

In his capacity as Assistant Secretary of State for East European Affairs, George would prepare a series of policy memos, consistent with his boss’s political philosophy, but written by himself and given to Kissinger in a pile at the end of each week.

By now he was so adept at doing this that he could even reproduce Henry’s distinctive turns of phrase. That Friday the heap of correspondence to various departments and bureaus included a brief memo to a middle-ranking office at the Department of Commerce:

There seems no point in holding up the sale of the Taylor RX-80. Its military value is tenuous at best. Besides, we might as well sell to them and get the money before they steal it.

George briefed the Secretary of State on the contents of what he had placed before him.

They were mostly policy directives, notes to various think-tanks to be sure their area studies were on target. And one or two miscellaneous notes, like a memo to DOD about security precautions at an upcoming arms-trade show. Also a note to DOC about an innocuous camera device the Soviets want to buy.

“Who did you check it out with to be sure it was ‘innocuous’?” Kissinger asked.

“Oh, an MIT whiz kid at Commerce named Webster,” George replied casually.

“I don’t think I know him. Is he new?”

George nodded. “But I looked into him. Apparently, nobody knows more than he does about this filter.”

“Do you think I ought to have a word with him myself?”

George’s mind raced frantically. “Uh — I don’t think you need to in this case.”

“I suppose you’re right. You always do a thorough job, George. Okay, you go home while I sign these.”

“Thanks, Henry.”

His boss looked up. “Have a good weekend, George. Don’t work too hard.”

Henry Kissinger remained at his desk for another two and a half hours. During which time he executed sixty-five different directives, including all the documents given him by George Keller.

Jason Gilbert’s parents did not go to Israel as planned in early October 1973. Because, as the country was at a standstill for Yom Kippur — the sacred day of atonement — the Egyptian and Syrian armies attacked in force.

Israel was caught completely off guard and, for several days, hovered on the brink of annihilation.

By the time news of the simultaneous attacks on the frontiers reached central command, Egyptian tanks had crossed the Suez Canal and were slaughtering the forces manning the southernmost lookout points. It seemed as if they would reach Tel Aviv without resistance.

The north was even worse. There hundreds of Syrian tanks had smashed across and were only a few hours from the population centers.

The handful of Israeli troops on duty dug in to slow the onslaught, knowing that the cost would be great, but equally aware that they had no alternative.

As the radio broke the silence of the holy day with frantic code messages to mobilize the nation’s reserves, Jason received a call at the kibbutz.

“What the hell’s going on?” he demanded anxiously.

“Listen, saba , don’t ask questions. It’s chaos in central HQ. We’re mobilizing like mad, but meanwhile we’ve got to slow the Syrians down. Get as many men as you can up to the Heights and reinforce them until we can get more armor through. Hurry the hell up to Nafa and report to General Eytan. He’ll give you a command.”

“Of whom?” Jason snapped.

“Of whoever’s still living, dammit! Now get going.”

Jason and five other kibbutzniks took one of their trucks and started north up the bumpy road, stopping every few miles to pick up other soldiers headed for the front. Some of them were still in jeans and sweatshirts, carrying only their weapons and ammunition. They said almost nothing during the ride.

But the Syrians had gotten to Nafa before them, and forced General Eytan to retreat.

The kibbutzniks found him in an improvised camp right by the roadside. Jason was stunned by the number of soldiers dead and wounded. The live and the quick were in short supply. Only a handful of reservists had been able to muster.

Among the half-dozen officers being briefed by Eytan, Jason recognized another member of the elite Sayaret Matkal , Yoni Netanyahu. The two nodded at each other as they listened to the commander’s litany of disaster.

“The Barak Armored Brigade is almost completely demolished. We’re outnumbered and outmatched. They’ve got the latest Russian T-62s. But we’ve still got to hold them till our own armor gets here. Try and organize your men and drill them with the antitank rocket launchers. And don’t waste ammunition!”

“How long till we get reinforcements?” Jason asked.

“God knows,” Eytan replied. “But all we have now is what you see here.”

“So, we’ll do it,” said Yoni Netanyahu with almost mystical conviction. “We’ll be like Gideon’s army.”

“I think even Gideon had more men than we do,” Jason quipped with what could only be called gallows humor.

As the meeting dispersed, the two young officers walked off together toward the small group of reservists waiting nervously for their orders.

“I know you’re a pretty good man with motors, Jason,” Yoni remarked. “Do you think you could oversee the repair of some of our less-battered tanks?”

“I guess so. But what the hell good is it? Even if I get them to work, we’ll still be outnumbered fifty to one.”

“Well,” Yoni said confidently, “that reduces our tactical options to only one. If they’ve got the armor, all we have is the timing. Have your tanks ready to attack by 0600 hours tomorrow.”

“Attack?” Jason retorted incredulously. “You must really believe in God, Yoni.”

“Ask me when all this is over. Meanwhile, I’ll be praying that you get those tanks operational.”

“You know, Yoni, where I come from we’d say that you play guts ball. It means —”

“I know what it means,” the young commander replied. “I’m going to college in America when this damn thing is over. Your alma mater, in fact.”

“No shit,” replied Jason. “Do you mean I’m up here in the valley of the shadow of death with another Harvard man?”

“Future Harvard man,” Yoni replied. “Now shake ass and get me some tanks.”

It was early evening in Washington when the first news of the Arab assault reached the White House.

Nixon asked Kissinger to brief him on the situation. He in turn called George and ordered him to gather as much intelligence as he could from the Pentagon and the Israeli ambassador.

“Awright, guys, give me the numbers,” the President demanded before the two men even sat down.

Kissinger pointed to George, who had a sheaf of documents. “The scope of it all is pretty staggering, Mr. President,” he began.

“Cut out the Harvard commentary, George,” Nixon snapped, “and just give me the damn numbers.”

“Well,” he continued, “the Egyptian Army is one of the largest in the world. They’ve got at least eight hundred thousand troops. We’re not sure how many have already crossed the Canal.”

“What do the Israelis have to hold them off?”

“I think we can safely assume the Egyptians have already destroyed any resistance,” Kissinger said solemnly.