57

IN THE READY ROOM of USMA Forward Attack Squadron Wildcat, the three pilots watch as Damian Smith announces what has just been agreed in the president’s meeting with the Saudi monarch. “According to White House sources,” Smith reads from a teleprompter, “gasoline prices at the pump are expected to fall slowly but steadily, possibly to pre-Mideast war prices, as existing more expensive oil stocks are depleted. In related news, the six-ship aid flotilla chartered by an American church group to bring humanitarian aid to the population of cut-off Tel Aviv continues to steam toward that beleaguered city.”

The screen goes to an aerial shot of an old freighter leading five smaller ships in a long line moving across the Mediterranean, then to a stand-up of a blond woman costumed by Dolce & Gabbana as a French sailor—espadrilles, white linen culottes cut above the knee, horizontally striped blouse, and, just to bring it all home, a sailor hat topped with a red pompom. Past her at the taffrail, the other vessels bob in and out of view.

“CNN’s Connie Blunt, looking very nautical indeed, is on the lead freighter. Connie, what’s it like on board?”

Blunt takes Smith’s tease as a compliment. “Damian, spirits remain high here on board the CV Star of Bethlehem, a former Greek vessel registered in Liberia. That’s CV for Christian Vessel, though I have discovered a surprising fact: Christians are not the only religion represented aboard this vessel of mercy.”

The camera falls back to reveal a group of four individuals arrayed against the rail.

“Hi there!” She offers her mic to a red-haired twenty-five-year-old, who is obviously thrilled with the chance to be on television. “What’s your name, sailor?”

“Taylor C. Briggs, ma’am.”

“And where are you from, Taylor?”

“Kansas City, ma’am. Just outside.”

“Taylor, you may have heard this before, but you’re not in Kansas anymore, are you? Care to tell us why you’re here?”

“Well, ma’am, in church my pastor called out to volunteers for a Christian mission. I’m a diesel mechanic back home, tractors mostly. This here’s a diesel ship. I got chose.”

“Very good. And you, madam?”

The woman is about fifty and wearing a flowered kerchief against the wind, which she immediately removes. “Mary Beth Shostak—with a K? Lovelock, Nevada. A lot of people never heard of it.”

“I can’t say I have, Mary Beth. Where about is Lovelock, near Las Vegas?”

“Oh, my, no. That would be the other side of the state. We’re just about seventy miles due southwest of Winnemucca.”

“I see. Now tell us, Mary Beth, how it is that you’re here, so far from Lovelock and, uh, Winnemucca.”

“Well, I’ve been an ER nurse for twenty years. I guess that’s why I’m aboard. Kind of a just-in-case thing. Never been out of the US ever. We don’t get too many big ships in Nevada.”

“Well, Mary Beth, let’s hope your services are not required. And you, young man. I can see you’re not a churchgoer.”

In the studio, unseen, Damian Smith cringes.

“You mean because of this little thing on my head? Yeah, there’s a large Jewish contingent, more on the other ships. William J. Hurwitz. Billy. I’m a student at Jewish Theological Seminary in New York. Can I give a shoutout?”

“Fire away, Billy.”

Billy waves, only his fingers moving. “Just want to say hi to my mom and dad in Albuquerque, my baby sister Simone, and all the crew at JTS, especially my Talmud teacher, Rabbi Wolfe, and my girlfriend, Ruthie. Mom and Dad, this may come as a shock, but before I signed on I...Ruthie said yes!”

Applause and whoops rise from the larger group behind him, which the camera pans.

“Anything else?”

“Ruthie, I love you!”

More applause. Someone lets out a two-finger whistle.

“And why are you here, Billy?”

The young man seems momentarily at a loss. “I guess if you were Jewish, you wouldn’t have to ask.” He suppresses the urge to tear up, then looks around. “Or Christian. Which reminds me. Don’t worry, Mom, Dad—Ruthie’s one hundred percent kosher!”

“Congrats, Billy—and Ruthie. Or should I say mazel tov? Which brings us to a young man you wouldn’t normally think would be on this ship going to the aid of Tel Aviv. Young fella, what’s your name?”

“Mohammed Said. Mo. I’m from Detroit. Dearborn, actually. And I’m here representing the Palestinian community of Michigan, to protest the mistreatment of the Palestinian people by the Arab and Iranian invaders.”

“Fascinating, Mohammed.”

“Mo.”

“Mo it is. I see you’ve got something prepared.”

The kid raises a hand-written sheet, which he holds in front of him with difficulty as the wind pushes it back. “Seventy years after losing our land to the Jewish State, my people has again lost its land, this time to fellow Muslims. As usual the world ignores the suffering of the Palestinian people.” He looks up to see how much he can get away with. “Just another few words?”

“Go ahead, Mo.”

“On behalf of the Palestinian community of Michigan, I have joined this humanitarian effort in hope the Palestinian and Israeli peoples can work together to defeat the foreign invaders so that our two nations can live together in peace.”

He is so relieved to have delivered the message he lets go the paper. It flies up, then back, rising over the bridge, and disappears.

“Wow. Mo, that was impressive. Is there anything you’d like to add?”

“Well, as everybody knows, tomorrow the University of Michigan plays Texas A&M in the Gator Bowl.”

“Yes?” Blunt says.

Mo opens his jacket to reveal a U of M t-shirt.

“Go Wolverines!”

Her cameraman closes tight on Blunt. “En route to Tel Aviv aboard the CV Star of Bethlehem, where spirits are high, I’m Connie Blunt.”