They emerged into a reception area where again the Brig's papers were
examined, and a paratrooper major was called to pass David through, a
duty he performed reluctantly and at the Brig's insistence. Then the
Brig led David along a carpeted and air-conditioned underground tunnel
to the pilot's dressing-room. It was tiled and spotless, with showers
and toilets and lockers like a country club changing-room.
The Brig had ordered clothing for David, guessing his size and doing so
accurately. The orderly corporal had no trouble fitting him out in
overalls, boots, G-suit, gloves and helmet.
The Brig dressed from his own locker and both of them went through into
the ready room, moving stiffly in the constricting grip of the G-suits
and carrying their helmets under their arms.
The duty pilots looked up from chess games and magazines as they
entered, recognized the general and stood to greet him, but the
atmosphere was easy and informal.
The Brig made a small witticism and they all laughed and relaxed, while
he led David through into the briefing-room.
Swiftly, but without overlooking a detail, he outlined the patrol that
they would fly, and checked David out on radio procedure, aircraft
identification, and other parochial details.
All clear? he asked at last, and when David nodded, he went on,
Remember what I told you, we are at war.
Anything we find that doesn't belong to us we hit it, hard! All right?
Yes, sir.
It's been nice and quiet the last few weeks, but yesterday we had a
little trouble down near Em Yahav, a bit of nastiness with one of our
border patrols. So things are a little sensitive at the moment. He
picked up his helmet and map case then turned to face David, leaning
close to him and fixing him with those fierce brown and golden eyes.
It will be clear up there today, and when we get to forty thousand, you
will be able to see it all, every inch of it from Rosh Hanikra to Suez,
from Mount Herman to Eilat, and you will see how small it is and how
vulnerable to the enemies that surround us. You said you were looking
for something worthwhile, I want you to decide whether guarding the fate
of three million people might not be a worthwhile job for a man.
They rode on a small electric personnel carrier down one of the long
underground passages, and they entered the concrete bunker dispersed at
one point of a great star whose centre was the concrete silo, and they
climbed down from the cart.
The Mirages stood in a row, six of them, sleek and needle-nosed,
crouching like leashed and impatient animals, so well remembered in
outline, but vaguely unfamiliar in their desert brown and drab green
camouflage with the blue Star of David insignia on the fuselage.
The Brig signed for two machines, grinning as he wrote Butch Ben Yak
under David's numeral.
As good a name as any to fly under, he grunted. This is the land of the
pseudonym and alias. David settled into the tiny cockpit with a sense
of homecoming. In here it was all completely familiar and his hands
moved over the massed array of switches, instruments and controls like
those of a lover as he began his pre-flight check.
