deadly load into the other machine in a clattering double stream of
cannon fire and an eruption of incendiary shells.
The Syrian disintegrated, evaporating in a gush of silvery smoke,
rent through with bright white lightning, and the ejecting pilot's body
was blown clear of the fuselage. For an instant it was outlined ahead
of David's screen, cruciform in shape with arms and legs thrown wide,
the helmet still on the head, and the clothing ballooning in the rush of
air. Then it flickered past the Mirage's canopy as David climbed
swiftly up out of the valley and into the open sky.
The soldiers were moving about amongst their vehicles, tending their
wounded and covering their dead, but they all looked up as David flew
back low along the road. He passed so close that he could see their
faces clearly. They were sunbrowned, some with beards or moustaches,
strong young faces, their mouths open as they cheered him, waving their
thanks.
My people, he thought. He was still high on the adrenalin that had
poured into his blood, and he felt a fierce elation. He grinned
wolfishly at the men below him and lifted one gloved hand in salute
before climbing up to where the Brig was circling, waiting for him.
The artificial lights of the bunker were dim after the brilliance of the
sun. An engineer helped David from the cockpit as his mates swarmed
over the Mirage to refuel and rearm it. This was one of the vital
skills of this tiny airforce, the ability to ready a warplane for combat
in a fraction of the time usually required for the task. Thus in
emergency the machine could return to the battle long before its
adversary.
Moving stiffly from the confines of the cockpit, David crossed to where
the Brig was already in conversation with the flight controller.
He stood with the gaudy helmet tucked under one arm as he stripped off
his gloves, but as David came up he turned to him and his wintry smile
exposed the gold tooth in its nest of fur.
Lightly he punched David's arm Ken! Yes! said Major-General Joshua
Mordecai. You'll do.
David was late to fetch Debra for dinner that evening, but she had
already learned the reason from her father.
They went to the Select behind David's Tower, inside the Jaffa Gate of
the old city. Its unpretentious interior, decorated with patterns of
rope upon the walls, did not fully prepare David for the excellent meal
that the Arab proprietor served with the minimum of delay, mousakha
chicken, with nuts and spices on a bed of kouskous.
They ate almost in silence, Debra quickly recognizing and respecting
David's mood. He was in the grip of postcombat tristesse, the adrenalin
hangover of stress and excitement, but slowly the good food in his belly
and the heavy Carmel wine relaxed him, until over the thimblesized cups
of Turkish coffee, black and powerfully reeking of cardamon seed, Debra
ask, What happened today, David? He sipped the coffee before replying.
I killed a man. She set down her cup and studied his face solemnly, and
he began to speak, telling her the detail of it, the chase and the kill,
until he ended lamely, I felt only satisfaction at the time. A sense of
