Operation Golden Dawn
off to some other tiny apartment in some other dusty town. Papa explained to them every move was necessary to protect them from the Mossad and the Israeli bombs. Papa kept them moving too much for Mustaf and Rachel to have any real friends, only make-believe ones and, of course, each other.Momma complained every time they moved. Mustaf listened through the paper-thin walls as Papa and Momma argued long into the night; Momma complaining that the children had no friends and were not getting any education. Papa yelling back that friends were a luxury they couldn’t afford. Except for reading the Quoran, schooling would come when they had a homeland of their own.
Papa was a leader in the holy fight to regain their rightful homeland. He was a fighter who had won many battles against the Israelis. Scores of freedom fighters in the fedayeen followed Papa on his jihad.
Papa trusted no one outside the family, except possibly a very select few in the Palestine Liberation Organization. The Mossad had agents everywhere. The hated Israeli secret service would search out and kill Papa and the family if they could. Mustaf learned early that a leader in battle had to be as wary of betrayal as he was fearless. In family was the only trust.
Maybe they would be lucky this time and go to Damascus for a few months. Mustaf hoped so. The short time they lived there when he was four or five, when Rachel was born, was the happiest time of his young life.
Damascus was such a big, bustling city. There was always something exciting to do and, for the only time in his life, Mustaf felt really safe. He could explore the warren of streets in the old city; enjoy a thousand adventures as he rushed through the bustling crowds.
“Mustaf, come play with me,” Rachel wheedled. She grabbed his hand and tried to pull him upright. “You be the Papa and I’ll be the Momma.”
She cradled her doll and smiled down at it. “Little Bea will be our baby.”
Mustaf growled in his most manly voice, “Silence woman. I am on duty. Father ordered me to guard our house.” The boy stood and pulled his sling from under his robe. “No Israeli will sneak up on us.”
“Oh, Musta,” Rachel giggled. “Father only said that to keep you busy. Now, come play with me.”
Mustaf shook off her hand and growled, “I am a freedom fighter. I don’t have time to play baby games. I have to guard Papa’s meeting.”
“Oh, pash!” Rachel cried, tears coming quickly into her deep brown eyes. “You aren’t guarding anything. You’re just being mean. You don’t want to play with me! I’m going to go tell Momma.”
Rachel scampered across the street, her black hair streaming behind her just as another large black Mercedes screeched to a halt, barely missing the little girl. The back door flung open. A short, fat man dressed in wrinkled khaki fatigues and wearing a checkered turban clambered slowly out. A grizzled salt-and-pepper beard hid a pudgy face and beady black eyes.
“Uncle Yassir,” Mustaf called out.
The little man looked up and glanced across the street just as Rachel darted toward the apartment building. He smiled and waved at Mustaf and headed around behind the car, his arms opened wide to greet the boy.
Rachel ran from the house, happily calling, “Uncle Yassir! Uncle Yassir! Candy! Did you bring candy.”
Uncle Yassir smiled and waved at the young girl.
Mustaf heard the roar before he saw anything. Four jets flew low and very fast. They just cleared the ridge top before screaming down the valley directly toward them. Mustaf barely had time to recognize the distinctive shape of an F-4 before he saw the black bombs fall away from under the wings. The vision of the Star of David on each wing burned into his brain as the jets past overhead, the screaming engines shaking the very earth.
Mustaf watched in horror as the bombs dropped away and glided down, right at him. They fell in awful slow motion, coasting over the olive tree and across the street before slamming into the apartment. Piercing the walls and roof of the house, leaving holes where they flew through the dried mud and wood.
Time slowed to a crawl. For a split second, nothing happened. Mustaf dared to hope they were duds. Then the house disappeared in a roaring blast of yellow, orange, and black. It hit Mustaf just a millisecond before the pressure wave tossed him to the ground. His world went dark.
Mustaf slowly shook his head and blinked. The branches of the olive tree came into focus. Something wasn’t right. There weren’t any leaves on it. Where had the leaves gone? The acrid smell of smoldering rubber and plastic burned his nostrils.
Mustaf eased himself up until he was sitting. The big jets came roaring down the street again. He could see the white Star of David painted on the sides of the American made F-4 Phantom jets as they roared overhead. He thought he saw the pilots smiling and waving.
The pain changed in a flash to pure hate. Someone would pay. He would make the Americans and their stooges, the Israelis, pay. If it took all his life, they would pay. Mustaf yelled in absolute rage, shaking his fist, daring the pilots to come back and fight. He would kill them! He would kill them all!
He looked across the street. Uncle Yassir was just rising from behind his limousine. The car was shattered, torn from shrapnel tossed from the explosion. But where was the apartment? Where were Momma and Papa? There was nothing but