Erich Segal - The Class

“And in the north?” the President asked.

“Well, the Syrians have some fourteen hundred tanks —” George began.

“I’ve heard enough,” Nixon interrupted with a wave of his hand. “We’re talking about a massacre, aren’t we? I mean, this is the Alamo, right?”

Kissinger answered analytically, “George hasn’t gotten to the most important aspect. The Russians have armed Egypt and Syria to the teeth. Besides the old SAM missile systems, they’ve got hundreds of new portable SAM-7s.”

“They’re antiaircraft launchers that can be used by ground forces,” George offered.

“I won’t sit and watch the Soviets turn the Middle East into their own country club!” Nixon pounded his fist on the desk. “We’ve got to upgrade the Israeli armory. I want you guys to tell Defense to get the supply line going.”

“Mr. President,” Kissinger cautioned, “a massive rearming of Israel is not going to please certain members of Congress.”

“Neither would the sight of Brezhnev drinking vodka in Tel Aviv. Now start the ball rolling and we can debate later.”

As they left the Oval Office, George could not help whispering to Kissinger, “I didn’t think Nixon liked Jews that much.”

“He doesn’t. But he hates the Russians more.”

“Well, Henry, I’d better get on the phone. I’ve got a lot of generals to convince this morning.”

“Let me deal with the Secretary of Defense, George. Schlesinger needs special handling.”

“Okay. But if things get rough you can always sing a few Harvard songs in his ear.”

Henry smiled and patted his protégé on the back. “Let’s meet in the Situation Room at five o’clock. By then we’ll have a better picture of where Israel stands,”

“You mean if it’s still standing,” George replied.

After haranguing the mechanics mercilessly, Jason had provided Yoni with a dozen tanks that could at least move. The young paratroop officer had immediately set off to counterattack the Syrian tanks.

Meanwhile, Jason led a small group of young and panicky soldiers in trying to recapture the Nafa camp. As they were nearing their objective, three huge Russian-made Ilyushin helicopters packed with enemy troops appeared on the horizon.

“Listen, guys,” Jason shouted urgently, “the key element is surprise. Catch them before they get their bearings. As soon as they touch down, start firing and scare the shit out of them.”

His men nodded wordlessly.

The minute the first chopper hit the ground, Jason called out, “Follow me!” and led the charge, firing as he ran.

The first Syrians to land returned their fire, killing several Israelis. But Jason continued to rush forward. Still in motion, he pulled a grenade from his belt and hurled it toward the disembarking commandos. It exploded near the helicopter and created a panic. The enemy began to scatter in every direction.

Yet these were elite Syrian troops, and some stood their ground, poised for hand-to-hand combat.

Though Jason had long trained for this kind of fighting, this was the first time he had done it with his life at stake. The first time he could see the faces of the men who would be his victims — or his killers.

At last the Israelis prevailed. The other two helicopters were frightened off. The ground was strewn with the dead and dying of both sides.

Seeing his shirt drenched in scarlet, Jason thought he had been wounded. He then realized it was the blood of the men he had fought — and dispatched.

One of his soldiers came up and said, “We nailed thirty of them, saba . I don’t think they’ll try to take Nafa again.”

“How many did we lose?”

“Four,” the soldier replied. “And two or three are pretty badly cut up. I’ve radioed for the medics.”

Jason nodded numbly and looked off into the horizon.

Slowly the tide of battle turned.

At long-last, their ranks were swelled with mobilized troops and they began to advance into Syria, ultimately regrouping within artillery range of Damascus.

By Saturday, October 13 — one week after Yom Kippur — the Syrian front was quiet enough to allow some of the Israeli troops to be transferred to the Sinai, where the battle was still fierce.

Jason boarded a helicopter, saw Yoni, and sat down next to him.

“Hey,” he joked wearily, “I’ll bet you a beer I’ve slept less than you in the past week.”

“I haven’t slept at all,” replied the younger officer. “Sorry I asked,” Jason said. “I got a magnificent two hours last night. I owe you a brew.”

“I won’t forget it,” Yoni smiled.

And they flew off to join the fighting in the Sinai. They had courage to spare.

The only thing they were running out of was ammunition.

Richard Nixon had ordered George Keller to appear immediately in his office. “Goddammit,” he fumed, “the Russians are pouring arms into Egypt and Syria. What’s happened to our airlift?”

“Apparently the Pentagon is arguing about whether we should use private or government planes. Some protocol thing, sir.”

The President rose and leaned on his desk angrily. “Listen, Keller, you get right on the phone and tell them to use every damn plane we have. I want that equipment in the air. And I want it now!”

On the eleven-o’clock news that evening, State Department spokesman Dr. George Keller appeared at a brief press conference announcing that the first transport planes with weapons for the Israelis were now en route to Tel Aviv.

Fifteen days after the war bad begun, Henry Kissinger and George Keller boarded a plane to Moscow to work out a cease-fire between Israel and Egypt, which went into effect on the following day. President Sadat of Egypt showed his gratitude for these efforts by establishing a new and direct relationship with Washington.

Historians will long argue over which side won the Yom Kippur War. But without question, the victor in the battle for world prestige was Henry Kissinger.

George Keller’s conscience ached. What was originally a small subterfuge had been magnified in his mind into an act of high treason. He was too frightened to discuss it with anyone — including Cathy.

Though he scoured every science magazine for mentions of the RX-80, nothing he read gave the slightest suggestion that it could be of strategic advantage.

Nevertheless, George lived in constant fear that his actions would be discovered. And he knew it would do him no good to plead humanitarianism. When you are a government official, you must let your father die if he’s on the other side.

He had received no word of Istvan Kolozsdi’s fate. He had been afraid to contact Yakushkin at the Russian Embassy, lest observers begin to think they were getting a little too chummy.

George tried to assuage his guilt pangs by convincing himself that he had done nothing legally wrong. And that with the amount of paperwork flowing between State, the Pentagon, Commerce, and the Oval Office, the chances of detection were nil. Only then was he able to get a night’s sleep.

But world events constantly rekindled the spark of fear in him. No less a figure than Willy Brandt, Chancellor of West Germany, had to resign in May 1974, when his close aide was exposed as a Communist spy.

George sometimes imagined he was being followed — and he had long suspected that his home phone was tapped. Even while accompanying Kissinger on his Middle East shuttle jaunts he did not feel secure. He could not trust the phones at the King David Hotel in Jerusalem or at the Nile Hilton in Cairo.

Late one afternoon, after a long and fruitless day of negotiation with the Syrian authorities, the Secretary of State was flying back to Israel.