CHAPTER THREE

Luks was called away to attend to some other pressing business, giving Williams a chance to talk over the situation with his graduate students. Not surprisingly, everyone agreed that it was time to get out of Dodge.

Heeding Luks' warning, Williams thought it prudent that they should at least take the small, first century artifacts along with them. The pottery shards, along with the wood samples, would be enough to confirm early first century habitation of the site once they were carbon dated, which could just as easily be done at back at Cornell once they got stateside. The Israeli authorities wouldn't go into too much of a tizzy over that, considering the circumstances.

The ossuary was a different story. Even if it contained nothing but sand, it was still a significant cultural treasure. And if it actually turned out to contain traces of human remains, removing it from its country of origin would be highly unethical. He waited until Luks ended a rapid-fire series of phone calls before approaching him with his decision.

"We're going to leave one crate with you and take the rest home with us. It's really heavy -- do you think they'd let us pull our car up front to unload it?"

Luks shook his head. "No. It's still hot out there. Give me your shipping information..." He handed Williams his clipboard. "I'll have one of my people bang out some labels to slap on the boxes that are going with you, and I'll send a couple of guys out there to drag the crate down here. Just describe it to them..."

Williams wrote down his address at the university on the yellow pad.

"Okay, good," Luks said. He tore the sheet from the pad, handed it to an assistant standing at the ready and gave the young man his instructions. Williams described the heavy wooden crate to be removed from the back of the SUV.

Luks told Williams to assemble his team around a desk. Luks took a seat. "Do any of you folks have any firearms, solvents, explosives, shoe bombs ... anything that's going to embarrass you or I when the Marines on the plane find them?" It was hard to tell if he was joking or not.

After the nervous snickers and appropriately negative responses Luks held his hand out. "Passports, please." The three of them handed over their passports.

Luks proceeded to stamp the passports with a special diplomatic seal. He then pulled out a handful of boilerplate letters printed on official letterhead, on which he wrote each American's name, and then stamped, dated and signed the letters. He folded the letters and slipped one into each passport.

"These will get you past the guards at the airport, and onto the plane," he explained as he returned the passports to their owners. "We're putting consulate seals on the boxes and bags in your car as well, that way nobody will give you any trouble with them, and the customs people stateside won't bother with them. The flight is going to New York's Kennedy Airport; you'll have to arrange transportation home from there."

"Got it," Williams said.

Luks rummaged through the papers on his desk and pulled out a photocopy of what looked to be a hand-drawn map. He handed it to Williams.

"Directions to Atarot Airport, along with the runway and flight information -- it's a United Airlines flight -- I don't think you're going to get any frequent flyer miles on this one, but you could always ask. They're scheduled to leave in about an hour and a half, so you'll need to leave the second my guys finish labeling your stuff. That last round of rocket strikes hit south of us, so you'll probably be safe heading north, especially since you'll be so close to the Palestinian territories."

"That's comforting."

"Drive directly to the airport, show them your letters and passports, and drive your car right up to here..." He pointed to an "X² on the runway map. "You'll be boarding directly from the tarmac. Someone will help you unload the car."

"The car belongs to the Hebrew University," Williams said.

Luks shrugged. "Leave the keys with somebody that looks honest, or, I don't know, in the glove compartment, and maybe call the university once you get home and let them know where to find it. We're in a war zone, Professor, they'll understand."

The consulate administrator's assistant reappeared at the doorway. "They're good to go, Mr. Luks. And you were right, Professor Williams ... that crate was heavier than it looked."

Luks stood up from behind the desk and held out his hand. "I hope you enjoyed your stay in Israel, Professor, the last couple of hours aside. Put in a good word for me the next time you write your Congressman. Safe home..."

It turned out that the trip home was a safe one, but not without a little more excitement at the airport. After clearing the checkpoint, they had just managed to weave the SUV through a tight maze of concrete barricades at the entrance to Atarot Airport when mortar rounds started falling on the northern edge of the airfield. Williams raced the car to the plane.

They could see an IDF Apache gunship hovering what seemed to be only a hundred yards or so outside of the airport, first unleashing a Hellfire missile at a target, then dipping in to shred whatever was left with a merciless barrage of 30-mm automatic chain-gun fire. The mortar fire was silenced just as Williams skidded the vehicle to a stop some 40 feet from the waiting jumbo jet, at the direction of a very serious-looking Marine. A dozen others, some patrolling the area on foot, others manning the heavy machine guns on their humvees, stood at the ready.

Before he'd had a chance to even shut off the ignition, Williams, Dave and Jennifer were hustled up the roll-up stairway onto the aircraft, where yet another Marine quickly eyeballed their paperwork and waved them through. The plane appeared to be about one third full, leaving plenty of room for the three Americans to find themselves seats together. Williams peeked out the window just in time to see his borrowed SUV, the rear compartment already emptied, racing off the tarmac.

They had to wait another tense 20 minutes before the last busload of tourists pulled up and were unceremoniously rushed onto the waiting plane. They started taxiing for takeoff as the bus was pulled off the tarmac. As promised, he could see a pair of IDF F-16's riding shotgun until the big jet was safely over the Mediterranean.

Williams had fallen asleep before the aircraft had even reached cruising altitude, but was awakened when a loud cheer and scattered applause went up from the cabin about 45 minutes into the flight. A pair of F/A-18E Super Hornets, sporting bright American flags on their fuselage and just launched from the Reagan, had been sent to escort the commercial charter over the carrier group's airspace.

The scene at Kennedy was no less hectic, though considerably safer. While still over the Atlantic, a flight attendant had arranged a connecting flight for them to Ithaca Tompkins Regional Airport; they had a two hour layover in New York, a small price to pay, they all thought, given the circumstances. They were just 40 minutes outside of Ithaca when a flight attendant informed them that, in the confusion, their stowed luggage hadn't made it to the connecting flight. But it had all been located and accounted for, and would be sent out on the next available flight and delivered to them at the airline's expense. Williams and his crew took the news in good-humored stride, as they were already fairly well tanked from having nothing constructive to do with their solid half-day spent in aircraft and airports other than drink. And besides, the bad news wisely came with an unnecessary but nonetheless welcome complementary round of beers to help soften the blow.

Williams took a well earned sick-day after the harrowing adventure, necessary in any case as he was both painfully hung over from all of the unaccustomed alcohol and severely jet-lagged, and unable to tell where the effects of one ended and the other began. He was tempted to call in to his department to see if the artifacts had arrived, but decided against it. If they were there, they were there, and if they weren't, he'd feel obligated to start calling the airlines to locate them, and he was in no mood. He was alive, he was safe, and he was at home with his wife and twin eight-year-old girls ... he needed to revel in that pleasant reality for a while.

The Cup of My Blood © Copyright 2008, Anthony F. Lewis