“You Israelis!” Ali said softly. “You can insult us all you want. But you are not so good at facing the truth, are you.” He stood unflinching as Nathan lunged forward again and was shoved back roughly by the soldiers.
“What is going on here?” The lieutenant burst into the tent, pistol drawn.
The guard who had been in the tent throughout spoke rapidly in Arabic. The lieutenant listened and then stepped forward, tipped Ali’s head to the light, and examined the cut. He said something in Arabic, and one of the other soldiers darted out of the tent. He was back in a moment with a first-aid kid.
“What did you say to this brave Israeli to cause this?” the lieutenant asked Ali in English, as he began daubing at the cut with antiseptic.
“He suggested that the myth of the Israeli superwarrior was gone forever,” Brad said, still fighting to control his anger against Nathan.
The officer turned and gave Nathan an appraising look. “Ah,” he said sadly. “I think the Israelis are very good winners, but not so good as losers.”
He finished, taped a large gauze patch over the cut on Ali’s face, then stepped back. “You are a foolish man, Colonel Shadmi,” he said. “If it were not for Ali Khalidi, I would be dealing with you not as a prisoner of war, but as an undercover agent. It is tempting to follow my original instincts, but we Arabs are not a vindictive people. We honor our commitments. You shall be sent across the Suez in the morning for interrogation.”
The lieutenant then turned to Miri and Sarah. “I wish that I could release you ladies, but the Israeli military uses women. I see from your papers that you are both in the reserves. I am afraid you also must be treated as prisoners of war.”
Brad started to step forward to protest but caught Ali’s quick look and almost imperceptible shake of the head.
“I assure you,” the Egyptian continued politely, “you will be treated with the utmost respect and courtesy. We shall take you back to Cairo, so you will have better conditions than here. Supply trucks will be here in the morning, and you may return with them.”
Brad suddenly felt sick, but he kept his face impassive as the lieutenant turned to him. “Mr. Kennison. As an American you have no part in this war. I have just checked with a war correspondent from the London Times who is here now. He will be returning to Cairo at noon tomorrow to file his reports. He said he would be glad to have you share his jeep. We are sorry that you have been caught in our problems here in the Middle East.”
Again Brad caught Ali’s eye and the shake of his head. He nodded to the officer. “Thank you. I appreciate these arrangements.”
The lieutenant turned to Ali, but before he could speak, Ali stepped forward. “I have a special request, sir.” He shot Nathan a look of pure contempt, visible for all to see.
“Oh?”
“I would share in the glory of this hour that Allah has given us.”
The lieutenant looked surprised. “In what way?”
“I would like permission to join your command and help redeem the shame of six years ago.”
Nathan spat in disgust, and the lieutenant spun around and slapped him across the face with the palm of his hand, a ringing blow that rocked Nathan’s head back. “Pig!” he shouted to Nathan. “An Israeli does not spit in an Egyptian’s tent.” The lieutenant spoke rapidly in Arabic, and the two soldiers grabbed Nathan and prodded him out of the tent.
The Egyptian then turned back to Ali, his eyes angry, his chest rising and falling rapidly.
“I would like to help you teach all Israelis where to spit,” Ali said calmly.
“Done!” said the Egyptian. Once again he went to the tent door. He stuck out his head and called sharply.
Three men came in, and the officer rapidly barked out his orders. The first motioned to Ali, who passed Brad with his eyes lowered and left the tent.
“Ladies,” the officer said,” if you will follow these men, they will show you to your new quarters.” He stuck out his hand and blocked Brad’s movement toward Miri. “I assure you, Mr. Kennison, they will be treated as ladies.” He motioned with his hand, and Miri and Sarah followed the remaining two Egyptians out of the tent. The anguish in Miri’s eyes drove through Brad like a red hot spear.
“Mr. Khalidi has told me of your feelings for the beautiful young Israeli,” the lieutenant said, “not that one could miss that himself. All will be well, and after the war—” He shrugged, stroking his mustache. “We will see to your comfort here until tomorrow, Mr. Kennison.” He stepped to the flap. “However, under the circumstances, you will please confine yourself to this tent.”
Brad nodded glumly.
“Without exception,” he warned sharply.
“I understand.”
When the lieutenant had gone, Brad stared at the flap, then sat down heavily on the cot. “Oh, Miri!” he said softly.
Twenty-seven
Brad sat on the edge of his cot, his head in his hands. It was past three in the morning, but his mind was working at top speed. In an hour or two the trucks would come for Miri, Sarah, and Nathan, and there was nothing he could do about it. Once they crossed the Suez and were taken into Egypt, that would be it. The lieutenant had promised Miri and Sarah courteous treatment, and Brad believed he meant it, but once they left here, who would guarantee his promises? At best it would be months before they would be returned to Israel. At worst—Brad shook that off, not willing to face the possibilities.
It seemed hopeless. Brad lay back on the cot in despair, conjuring up one wild scheme after another, discarding them almost instantly. Somewhere around midnight he had heard the guard outside his tent changed, and he had tried to bluff his way past the new man. He had smiled, gestured, pointed, and talked enthusiastically, but the guard had never wavered. His face was as stony as that of the Sphinx, and the point of the rifle was the same. Though Brad’s Arabic was limited to less than a dozen words, he clearly understood the man’s harsh command and his implacable expression.
Back inside the tent Brad had searched meticulously in the pitch blackness on his hands and knees, for anything to cut through the canvas. But the two cots and a small portable toilet were the only items in the tent. He finally managed to pry off one of the thick wooden legs of one of the cots, but the edges were smooth and round, the wood too thick to break into a jagged edge. For a brief time he had considered trying to sneak outside and take out the guard, but when he peeked out the tent flap, he met the man’s gaze, wary as a mongoose watching a cobra, and Brad let the flap drop quickly.
He half hoped Ali would find a way to intervene, but as the hours wore on, his hope waned. And in spite of his deep disappointment, he could not blame his friend. He remembered the bitterness in Ali’s eyes that evening they first met, as he told Brad of the shame he had felt during the Six Day War. Who could point the finger of accusation at the young Arab for wanting to be with his people when their hour finally came? Add to that Nathan’s hottempered stupidity, and Brad was left with few expectations.
For the sixth or seventh time that night, he swung off the cot and knelt beside it, pleading for help. Then once again he resumed his staring into the darkness.
Ten minutes later, when four Israeli jets came rocketing over the camp at less than five hundred feet, the battering ram of sound they hurled along below them brought Brad to his feet in a startled leap. It was like the concussion of an artillery shell exploding beneath one’s chair, and he looked wildly around for a moment before he realized what had happened. Outside, the camp exploded in a wild hail of gunfire, but the startled soldiers might just as well have tried to shoot down the moon. At five hundred and fifty miles an hour, in the three or four seconds it took for the troops to react, the jets were half a mile away and unleashing their fury on the emplacements lining the banks of the canal. The wild shooting ended as Brad heard the officers and noncoms screaming at the men to hold their fire.
The second wave of F-4 Phantoms were less than thirty seconds behind the first, and Brad instinctively ducked as the deafeni
ng sound rocked the tent again. He understood almost instantly what was happening. Russia had furnished the Egyptian armed forces with the SAM VI, surface-to-air missiles with a deadly accuracy that had stunned the Israeli air force. This was their answer—treetop-level attacks at night using sophisticated groundsearching radar. And just as suddenly as Brad had understanding, he had an answer. Groping quickly around the cot, he found his makeshift club and stepped to the flap of the tent.
Come on, Israel, he urged fiercely, just one more flight. He didn’t have long to wait for his command to be obeyed. The third wave of fighters blasted overhead and were gone almost before the mind could register consciousness of their passing. The guard pivoted in his tracks as he tried in vain to follow the source of the earsplitting sound. It was his last conscious act for that night, for Brad was out of the tent in a flash, swinging the leg of the cot against the base of his skull. He collapsed with a soft moan. Brad caught him before he hit the ground and dragged him inside the tent. Then he opened the flap, intent on retrieving his club and the guard’s rifle, but he jerked up short with a grunt of disgust. In the light of the half moon, the figure of an Egyptian soldier running rapidly toward him was perfectly clear.
Cursing himself for not taking the rifle first, Brad stepped up against the wall near the doorway and held his breath. The footsteps pounded up, then stopped right outside. Brad made a club of his fists and raised his arms high as the flap of the tent pushed open slightly. Just as he tensed for the swing, he heard the urgent whisper.
“Brad!”
He nearly shouted for joy. “Ali!”
Stepping quickly inside, Ali turned on a flashlight and revealed his broad, grinning face, the white bandage a gleaming patch on his cheeks.
“Man! Am I glad to see you.”
“I tried to get away a little earlier,” his friend said, “but things at the office have really been hectic.” He dropped the beam of the flashlight so that it revealed the sprawled figure on the floor. “I see you have been busy too.”
“Yes, thanks to the Israeli air force. Do you know where they are holding Miri?”
“Yes, but hold on a minute. The initial surprise is over out there, and all we have now is a very alert camp. We’ve got to create some diversion of our own.” He swung up his other hand, which held a bundle wrapped in a khaki shirt. “They have been watching me like a hawk, so I haven’t been able to get much.”
As he opened up the makeshift pack, Brad saw two kerosene latterns and a sprawl of matches. “Directly behind us is the ammunition dump. It’s under guard.” He handed Brad one of the lamps and a handful of matches. “Wait here until I get into the motor pool. Once I get something going, see what you can do with the ammunition dump. I’ll meet you back here, and we’ll go get the others.”
Suddenly overwhelmed at what this meant, Brad touched Ali’s arm. “Thanks. I was afraid you really meant it when you said what you did to the lieutenant.”
“I did,” Ali said sadly, “but the Mormon in me has to take priority for now. Maybe later—” He shrugged. “Let’s go. Give me about two minutes.”
Two minutes later Brad was out of the tent in a flash, pausing only long enough to grab the guard’s rifle before running in a low crouch toward the rear of the camp. He could hear the angry rumble of explosions to the north, and saw the flashes of light that accompanied it.
The ammunition dump was exactly as Ali had described it, and Brad saw the silhouette of the lone, patrolling figure almost immediately. He dropped behind the cover of a small clump of brush and waited for Ali’s handiwork. A moment later a pillar of flame shot into the air, as the gas tank of a truck near the perimeter of the camp exploded. With a cry, the guard leaped away, unslinging his rifle.
Brad’s lips were tight as he ran to the dump. It wasn’t a particularly large cache of ammunition—less than a hundred boxes—but it would be sufficient. He pried the lids off the first three boxes with the bayonet on the rifle, pleased to see that there were mortar rounds packed in a strawlike material. He unscrewed the lid of the kerosene lamp’s reservoir and splashed the liquid inside the boxes.
Quickly he moved around the stack and popped open the lids on two different boxes. Hand grenades. On a sudden impulse he snatched three and shoved them into the pockets of his windbreaker. Again he splashed the kerosene. He was so intent on what he was doing that he nearly singed his eyebrows when he struck the match and the kerosene whooshed into flame. He tossed a match into the first boxes he had opened, picked up his bundle, and sprinted back the way he had come. His little blaze was nothing compared to the truck, but it would very soon attract someone’s attention.
Ali was waiting at the rear of Brad’s tent. He nodded in satisfaction as he saw the flickering light behind Brad. “We do good work, boy!” he said, grinning. “All right, let’s go.”
Fifty yards away, Ali darted around another tent like the one Brad had been in. “This is where Miri and Sarah are,” he whispered. “The guard out front is gone. Be careful. He may be inside.”
At that moment the first box of mortars went off with a tremendous roar. The concussion shook the ground.
“That will help!” Brad muttered with satisfaction.
“I’ll get Nathan and meet you right here.”
Brad smiled. “Think he’ll come with you?”
Ali patted his rifle. “It will be a pleasure to persuade him.” He leaped up. “Hurry now!” He darted off.
Brad slashed the canvas with one savage tear of the bayonet and heard startled movement within. “Miri, it’s Brad!” he whispered as he dove through the opening.
The dive saved his life, for he hit the legs of the guard, who, instead of rushing to join the others, had gone in to watch his charges. When Brad slashed the tent, the man swung his weapon at the opening. With a startled yelp, the guard dropped the muzzle of the weapon and pulled the trigger. It went off so close to Brad’s face that he felt the burn of the powder on his cheek. The roar nearly blasted out his left eardrum.
Brad lunged at the man’s legs and drove forward. They crashed heavily against the wall of the tent, rocking it violently, and the guard’s weapon clattered to the ground. As he went for it, Brad brought his knee up with all the force he could muster and caught the man full on the chin. His head snapped back, and he hit the floor like a sack of spoiled potatoes.
Brad was still for a moment, hunched over, gasping for breath, holding his left ear.
“Brad, are you all right?” Miri said, rushing over to him.
He stood up and shook his head violently to ease the pain. “I’ll be okay. Hurry, out the back.”
Miri’s eyes were wide. “But how did you ever—?”
“Ali! He’s getting Nathan right now.”
Another explosion shook the camp.
“That’s our little diversion,” he added with a touch of pride in his handiwork.
They saw Nathan and Ali almost immediately coming toward them in a running crouch.
“Oh, Nathan!” Miri cried, giving him a brief hug.
Ali whipped out a length of rope. “All right, wrap this around your wrists so it looks like I’ve got you tied up. Brad, keep that rifle hidden until we get to the jeep.”
“Jeep?”
“Yes,” Ali said modestly. “I didn’t want everything in the motor pool to go up.”
“Wait a minute!” Brad said in an urgent whisper. “Who’s going to drive the jeep?”
“I am,” Ali replied.
“With four dangerous prisoners to guard, you drive the jeep?”
Ali suddenly looked ill. “I didn’t think about that. I was so glad to find some transportation.”
“Inside the tent,” Brad commanded. “Quick! Ali, give me the flashlight.”
Once inside he flashed the light at the unconscious Egyptian. Ali grunted at the sight. “The Egyptians are going to love you.”
Brad ignored that. “Nathan!” he commanded, “you’re it. I could never pass as an Arab, not even in th
e dark.” He knelt quickly and started unbottoning the man’s uniform.
“I can’t either!” Nathan protested.
“We have no choice. Just keep your head down. Come on, man! Get that uniform on. We’ve got to have two Egyptians to pull this off. Move!” He yanked off the man’s pants.
Nathan quickly began making the switch in uniforms.
Sarah stepped up to Brad. “Do you know what it means if Nathan is caught in an Egyptian uniform?”
“Sarah!” Nathan commanded sharply.
She ignored him. “He could be shot as a spy.”
“Sarah,” he said more softly. “And what about Brad and Ali, and what they are doing?”
She bit her lip and stepped back.
Under any other circumstances it would have caused the other four to double over with laughter. By the time Nathan got the brown uniform buttoned over his clothes, he looked like two quarts of water poured into a pint jar. Brad simply gave him a quick smile and shook his head.
“All right, let’s go. When we get to the jeep, Nathan will drive. Ali, you’re in command so you sit in the back and keep the gun on us.”
The camp was in an uproar still, men running wildly about, and automatic rifle fire was splitting the night air, though Brad assumed they were blasting away at shadows. The moonlight was now overshadowed by the flickering light from the motor pool area, where three trucks and a half-track were blazing fiercely. The ammunition dump was putting on its own spectacular as explosion after explosion ripped the air.
They made it to the main entrance of the camp, a narrow zigzagged opening left in the rolls of concertina barbed wire, without a single challenge. Nathan and Sarah were in the front of the jeep, Miri and Brad in the back, with Ali perched on the rear platform where he could cover them all. Ali spoke rapidly to the guard, who nodded and walked back quickly into the makeshift guard station where a field telephone was visible. He picked it up and began to speak.
“What did you tell him?” Brad whispered to Ali, aware that twenty men were within fifty feet of the jeep in either direction, dug into foxholes and trenches.