Raid on the Sun (19 page)

Raz said nothing.

Colonel Spector recovered first.

“Well,” he said, continuing in a conversational tone as though Raz had been in on their chat all along, “Raz has been squadron leader the whole mission, so he will stay leader.”

Nachumi nodded, glanced awkwardly at Raz, and left the room.

Raz stood rooted where he was. What the hell was Spector talking about? Of course he was squadron leader. When was the notion that he would continue as squadron leader ever in doubt? Spector spoke as if it had been somehow debatable—and out in the open! Raz opted against pressing the matter and let the incident pass as some kind of mixup. But privately he was enraged. He could not believe the treachery he had just witnessed. Nachumi, at the last minute and behind his back, had seemingly been lobbying Spector, his mentor, to promote him to mission leader over Raz. Forget the question of insubordination, or that it was General Ivry’s call to decide who was in command, on strictly professional grounds, who would risk the cohesiveness and camaraderie of a combat team facing a formidable assignment on the eve of the mission—for personal advancement? Indeed, Raz perceived, Nachumi considered Raz and himself co-leaders—it was simply a matter of timing that Raz was first team leader. As he had said, missions in IAF were assigned to squadrons, not a single man. Raz could not believe the gall.

But Raz put it away in the box. He would not tell anyone on the team what he had witnessed—it would risk the same damage and resentment throughout the entire squadron that he alone was feeling now.

On Wednesday, June 3, four days before the attack, Yoram Eitan took off in an Israeli-made Kfir fighter for a training exercise in air-to-air combat in the skies above Etzion. Doobi Yaffe had been Yoram’s instructor when he was still a “nugget.” Yoram was not a natural pilot, but he was determined, full of energy, and fearless. And a bit headstrong. During the mock dogfight, Yoram made a radical maneuver to evade his “attacker,” pulling the plane’s nose up to escape the enemy on his tail. The engines did not “flame out,” but the Kfir began stalling, losing airspeed quickly. Suddenly the plane rolled over and began a flat spin, gyrating violently, turning round and round, corkscrewing toward the desert floor. Yoram worked desperately to regain control of his aircraft, fighting the G forces that pinned him to his seat and made the simplest of movements extremely difficult.

“Neutralize the stick!” the OT instructor radioed Yoram.

“I’m, ah . . . ah . . . trying,” Yoram gasped, fighting the spin and the dizziness.

With each revolution his plane lost a thousand feet.

“Come on, Yoram. Get it stopped!” the instructor yelled through his oxygen mask.

“I can’t . . . ah . . . I . . . it won’t stop . . . ah . . . spinning . . .”

“Get out! Yoram!” the instructor pleaded desperately. “You’re getting low. Eject!”

“Wait, I think . . . I think . . . I . . .”

“Eject. Eject now!”

Yoram’s Kfir continued to corkscrew horribly toward earth. Inside the aircraft he was disoriented, fighting unconsciousness, struggling hopelessly with instruments that would not respond.

Then, no more radio contact. Just a terrible silence. And the telltale black plume of smoke rising from the pale desert floor below.

As Eitan sat in the meeting at IAF headquarters, a pale, grim-faced aide entered and crossed the room to tell the general the news, his voice little more than a whisper: his son, Yoram, had just been killed in a training accident over Etzion. Eitan swallowed the news, saying little. He left the briefing room and drove straight home to his wife, where the two parents began sitting shivah for their lost pilot.

Word quickly spread throughout the military. Every pilot at Ramat David was shaken. Yet another reminder that death could come for anyone at any time. But mostly they ached for Eitan, who had always been more like a beloved uncle than their commander and chief. No one said a word, but everyone had the same thought: How bizarre was it that the death of their commander’s son should take place at the very base they were to take off from on the most desperate mission of their lives? What did it mean?

Ivry grieved for his friend. But he had another problem as well. He had been invited by the United States Navy to attend a gala celebration in Naples, Italy, the weekend of the 7th to mark the change of command of the Mediterranean’s 6th Fleet. The U.S. Navy would fly Ivry into Naples Thursday night, fete him at Friday’s reception and black-tie dinner, then fly him home Saturday morning. The invitation could not have come at a worse time. The outgoing admiral was a longtime friend of Ivry’s, so to beg off would be personally offensive. But, more seriously, considering what was going to happen Sunday, a no-show at the function, in hindsight, would look almost like a betrayal to the Americans. On the other hand, to show up, knowing all along that his own air force was about to violate an arms treaty between the two countries, and to eat, drink, and chitchat at his allies’ expense on the eve of his “perfidy,” as he was sure some would see it, might look like he was rubbing it in. And, of course, while trying to be diplomatic and charming, his mind would be elsewhere, worrying about details of the mission. The flight to Italy was torture as all these thoughts and more ran through Ivry’s head.

Eitan was supposed to get a final go-ahead from the prime minister on Friday, June 5. Ivry ordered his aide to call him in Naples as soon as he received word: if the raid was still a go, he was to use the code word
Opera.
Sure enough, late in the afternoon at the gala, as Ivry made small talk, chatting up the navy brass and nibbling without appetite the appetizers served in a grand ballroom overlooking the most beautiful harbor in the world, the IAF general was called away to the telephone.

“Yes?” Ivry said into the phone, his muscles tensing unconsciously.

“Your tickets for the Opera have been confirmed for Sunday,” he heard a familiar voice say from Tel Aviv.

“Thank you,” the general replied, and hung up.

Ivry didn’t know whether to feel relieved or anxious. He still didn’t know how to feel Saturday morning, when he arrived back home to discover that his wife was having guests in for dinner that night.

The question of whether or not to tell their wives about the mission weighed heavily on all the men—with the exception of bachelor Ramon. He had been dating a pretty aide in military intelligence named Ophir, and she knew all about the raid. Most of the other pilots decided not to tell. First of all, they had all signed a paper swearing not to reveal details of the mission to anyone. Second, and most important, the pilots did not want to put their wives through the torture of waiting and worrying. What would be, would be. Worrying them to death was not going to change anything. It was especially tough on Raz, whose wife had just given birth to his son.

Doobi Yaffe’s mother, Mitka, not only knew about the mission, but had known about it long before her son had heard of Osirak. She knew everyone who was anyone because her husband and Doobi’s father had been a famed IAF commander, but also because she had served as personal stenographer to every prime minister of Israel dating back to David Ben-Gurion. She was now Prime Minister Begin’s right hand and had been at every cabinet meeting, taking notes on every detail of every briefing. Mitka would be with Prime Minister Begin on Sunday, awaiting word of the attack. Two days before the mission, on her way to see Raful Eitan in Tel Aviv, Mitka stopped by to visit her son and his wife, Michal. Michal was the daughter of Ezer Weizman, who was not only the former defense minister, but had had a famous falling-out with Doobi’s own father, Avraham Yaffe. The two celebrated military heroes had been best friends—that is, until 1968 when Weizman, then commander of the IAF, refused to recommend Avraham to succeed him, launching a feud between the two well-known Israeli figures that lasted a decade, during which neither would speak to the other. As a result, Doobi and Michal’s unlikely courtship and marriage was something akin to the one between the Capulets and Montagues.

Yaffe had told his wife about the mission. Mitka Yaffe could see it at once in Michal’s pale expression. The two women never exchanged a word about the impending raid or hinted that they were aware of it. But as she was leaving, Mitka hesitated at the doorway and locked eyes with her daughter-in-law, holding her there.

“When he is back safely,” she said deliberately, “I will call you and tell you to have a glass of cognac. And you will know . . .”

Hagai Katz had made up his mind not to tell his wife, Ora. But earlier that first week in June, just nights before he was to fly to Etzion, Ora informed Hagai that they were invited to a family gathering that weekend with her parents.

“I can’t,” Katz said. “I have an important mission this weekend.”

“You have to come,” Ora flashed.

“I cannot,” Katz repeated. “It’s very important.”

“Oh, sure,” Ora replied sarcastically, convinced Hagai was trying to wriggle out of the dinner with her in-laws. “What are you going to do, bomb the Iraqi nuclear reactor or something?”

Katz nearly fell backward. He stared at his wife, speechless. But thankfully, she was much too annoyed to notice.

Amos Yadlin trusted his wife Karen more than he trusted himself. The two shared everything, even more so after she gave birth to their first daughter in February. So one night before the mission, as the team tied up loose ends at Ramat David, preparing to fly the F-16s south to Etzion on the fifth, Yadlin sat Karen down and told her about the mission he was to undertake on Sunday. He did not need to tell her how dangerous it was.

When he finished, Karen stared at him, her eyes shiny, filling. But she was not going to cry. She took his hand in hers and squeezed it.

“Try to survive,” she said quietly. And that was that.

The Friday before the mission, the pilots flew their F-16s down the Sinai to Etzion one at a time, staggering their flights throughout the day in order not to attract attention. Raz took off from Ramat David in his fighter, No. 107, in the early afternoon for the one-hour flight to Etzion. The centerline tank and the two wing tanks were empty, but he carried two Sidewinders. As he flew above the country, he watched the land below change from verdant towns and kibbutzes to the brilliant colors of the Negev. But what should have been an easy flight was becoming surprisingly laborious. Raz felt that his INS, the inertial navigation system that automatically computed and adjusted the preflight navigation headings, factoring in air-speed and mileage as well as wind and weather, was not accurate. “Washy” was how he thought of it. When he landed, he complained to his wingman, Amos Yadlin.

“It’s not good,” Raz said. “As the leader, I need a better airplane.”

“Take mine then,” Yadlin said.

In truth, Yadlin thought Raz’s complaint was somewhat odd. Training and flying in the same plane for months, a pilot became attached to his aircraft as though it somehow had its own personality, its own “soul.” Indeed, like high-performance automobiles, each plane handled a little differently, had its own quirks and mechanical signatures a pilot grew used to. To simply switch to a new aircraft voluntarily, especially at such a late date, was almost unheard-of. But Yadlin knew the squadron leader was under a great deal of pressure. Yadlin liked his plane, No. 129, but he wasn’t overly superstitious about it, as some pilots were. He was too practical for that. If it would make Raz feel better, then he was willing to switch. It was decided: Raz would fly 129, Amos 107.

The rest of Friday afternoon the pilots were left mostly to themselves to read, relax in their barracks, or wander the base. Meanwhile, the tech crews and mechanics checked out the twelve F-16s sequestered in their hangar. The familiar blue six-point Star of David and white circle on the wings were painted out with the sand, brown, and green iguana pattern of desert camouflage. The MK-84s, external fuel tanks, and everything else was checked and rechecked.

That night, after all the pilots had landed and been billeted in the officers’ barracks, the men watched a 16mm Israeli war movie in the squadron room and then turned in to bed early in the large dormitory-style room.

Saturday morning, the pilots were up by 0600 simply out of habit. It was to be a day of so-called leisurely activity—a torture for soldiers waiting to attack. The pilots were used to short-time combat. You were up, you spotted an enemy MiG, you got cleared to engage, and then you engaged and killed—all in less than ten minutes. Or in combat, you flew sortie after sortie, landing, refueling, rearming, and taking off again. In both cases Israeli pilots had no time to think, to ponder the unknowns and the what-ifs. This mission was an entirely new experience for the IAF, and it brought new problems. The squadron had just discovered the latest: time. It was their own personal version of
Ha-Hamtana,
literally “the waiting,” what the Israelis called the tense, maddening, interminable period of time in 1967 after Egypt reoccupied the Sinai and the nation waited for the inevitable war to follow.

The men picked at their breakfast without enthusiasm. That afternoon they organized a basketball game in the base gym, Raz’s squadron 117 team against Nachumi’s 110. The friendly game, however, quickly turned competitive. They were all young, aggressive fighter pilots and no one liked to lose. The play grew rougher and more serious. Relik Shafir was a great shooter and drew a crowd of defense from Raz’s 117. Soon elbows were being thrown, then body blocks and head butts. Shafir was knocked to the ground and a scuffle broke out under the basket. Some of the unspoken rivalry between the two leaders, perhaps, and maybe lingering resentment over Spector’s gambit to join the squadron, had found its way into the game. Driving to the hoop, Yaffe was knocked hard to the floor under the basket, almost cracking his head open against the post. He climbed back to his feet, surprised. The fall snapped the men back to reality. The two teams decided to call it a game and headed back together to the dorm to shower and cool off.