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,
“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
“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.
“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 protege 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
