37

IN THE FIRST LIGHT of dawn over the Negev Desert, three Israel Air Force F-16s fly south in broad formation at 1500 feet, just below the radar of one hundred twenty-two Egyptian F-16s closing at two thousand feet above. In the lead plane, Major Alex scans the horizon as he applies lipstick, a muted peach. It’s daytime, after all. “Take it off, put it on,” he says to no one in particular, his talk button un-depressed. “The story of my life.” He absolutely hates applying lipstick without a mirror. On the other hand, he thinks, who the fuck is going to see my corpse?

Certainly not the two pilots on either wing three hundred feet behind him. He picked these men himself out of the hundred or so who showed up at the air base to find themselves riders without horses. Of these, twenty-three were detailed to pick up El Al and Arkia civilian aircraft at neighboring Ben-Gurion Airport, the passenger planes to be loaded with bombs meant for Egyptian infantry. These are fighter pilots flying buses, and there is little doubt in their minds they will be blown out of the sky by enemy air-to-air missiles. For the Egyptian F-16s, this will be like shooting cows in a pasture.

Alex slips the lipstick into the slit chest pocket of his drab-green flight suit, ostensibly a standard-issue but—thanks to a certain talented dressmaker—cut exceedingly well. He taps his headset.

“Guys, sandwich high and low. I’m head on. Anybody doesn’t take out thirty of these mothers is a douchebag. Look at those innocents, flying so close. Fire well and you’ll hit two with one rocket. Just one more small thing: nobody returns to base with unexpended ammo. Repeat: pouches empty, not one round. Happy hunting. Over and out.”

His left and right wingmen peel off. All three planes go vertical, attacking from below.