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"Where exactly do you plan to take me?" Tom asked.
"My instructions are to drive you to the British Embassy where you will be
provided for until suitable arrangements can be made for your departure on the
next U.K., U.S. or U.N. flight or vessel. If you prefer, I am to deliver you
to the U.S. Embassy, where similar arrangements will be made."
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Tom had been anxious to get out of the hospital, so he eagerly accepted
Ambassador Roger's offer.
In ten minutes they were on their way out the front door. There were no lights
in Tel Aviv that night except the fires of burning buildings, which reflected
against the smoke-filled sky and shrouded the city with an eerie glow.
"Polucki," Tom said, as his young British escort slowly drove the Mercedes
through the abandoned streets, turning his lights on only when absolutely
necessary and only for a few seconds at a time. "What's your first name?"
"Nigel, sir," Polucki replied.
"Polucki is a Polish name, isn't it?" Tom asked.
Why Hast Thou Forsaken Me? 143
"Yes, sir. My grandparents escaped to Britain at the beginning of the Second
World War. They were part of the Polish government-in-exile which the British
officially recognized as the true government of Poland."
At that moment the air around them began to rumble and convulse, finally
culminating in the sound of an explosion, followed almost immediately by the
screaming whine of a disabled Israeli jet as it careened in a tight spiral
toward the ground. From inside the car it was impossible to determine what the
sound was, but from the unearthly noise that shook the ground around them, it
sounded like the gates of hell were opening.
The pilot was already dead as the jet slammed headlong into the side of a six
story office building just two blocks away from where Polucki had brought the
car to a screeching halt. His foot was planted firmly on the brake, and his
fingers were locked around the steering wheel, but it did little to steady his
shaking hands.
Tom was shaking too, but he grabbed his camera and jumped out of the car to
get a shot of the destruction. "Wait here," he told his young escort. Nigel
didn't argue  he needed a few minutes to steady his nerves before he would
feel ready to drive again. Tom had walked only about thirty yards when again
he heard the roar of jet engines. To his left, the horizon was filled with the
wingspan of an oncoming Libyan MiG.
Flying just above the rooftops, the plane's engines swallowed up huge gulps of
air as it passed directly over Tom's head, followed a moment later by a second
jet, an Israeli Eagle, in hot pursuit. The MiG maneuvered sharply to the right
and the Israeli followed. The Libyan went left, but the Israeli was right
behind him. Then, as Tom recorded the images of the duel on his digital
camera, the Libyan made what Tom thought was a fatal mistake: he started to
climb. Tom knew the
MiG could never match the Eagle in climbing speed. The Israeli closed on his
target. As the two planes streaked skyward, the Eagle released a sidewinder
air-to-air missile, just as Tom expected.
The missile closed in for the kill and Tom readied his camera to capture the
moment of impact. But at what seemed the last possible second, the MiG rolled
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into a dive. It was a good maneuver, but it had come an instant too late. The
heat-seeking missile had caught his scent and turned with him. Downward the
MiG sped, racing for its life against the single-minded sidewinder. Soon the
pilot would have
144 In His Image to pull up, and when he did the loss of speed would allow
the missile to overtake him.
Closer and closer he came to the ground, maintaining his course as long as
possible in order to build speed. A few seconds more and it would be too late
to pull up; the MiG would crash into the earth, followed by the unrelenting
sidewinder.
The flyer made a valiant attempt, but as he passed the point at which Tom
thought he must pull up, it seemed all had been in vain. Tom readied his
camera to record the crash as, finally, the pilot raised the plane's nose.
It's too late, Tom thought, but to his amazement the pilot raised the machine
in a tight arch that missed the tops of buildings by less than fifty yards.
The plane
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demanding effort but the pilot held its course, streaking directly overhead.
The missile began to follow but was unable to fully make the radical course
adjustment.
As Tom searched the sky for the trailing missile it suddenly came into full
view. It was headed directly towards them. As the missile pierced the metal
roof of Nigel's Mercedes it exploded in a sun-bright flash, killing Nigel
instantly as his body disintegrated into minute particles and joined the wash
of other charred projectiles flying in all directions at cyclone speed. Before
Tom could even blink, small shards of steel and glass cut painful, bloody
paths as they sank deep into his face and eyes, followed an instant later by
the car's hood, which knocked him violently to the street.
Derwood, Maryland
Decker sat at the computer in his study, typing up the profile piece on
Ambassador Hansen. It was early morning, a few minutes before 6:00. He would
e-mail the article to News World later in the day, but there was no rush. The
real news was the war in the Middle East. Hansen's profile would probably make
for an interesting sidebar story to the war. Decker's angle was to look at
Hansen as the man who almost stopped the war. It was an exaggeration, but he
would tone it down in the body of the story.
In Louisa's old room, Decker could hear Christopher's alarm clock ringing. He
was starting school in a few days and he wanted to re-adjust to early
mornings. By the time Christopher was dressed, Decker had breakfast on the
table.
Why Hast Thou Forsaken Me? 145
"Good morning, sleepy head," Decker said when Christopher came into the
kitchen. "I fixed your favorite: waffles and syrup with plenty of bacon on the
side!"
Christopher gave Decker a knowing smile and responded, "Uh, Mr. Hawthorne, as
I recall, that's your favorite breakfast. Remember?"
Decker put his hand over his mouth and gasped in mock surprise. "Why, so it [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]