Raid on the Sun (15 page)

Raz and Nachumi took their seats in Ivry’s office, and after the usual small talk, the general got quickly to the point.

“I want you to concentrate on an air-to-ground mission,” he said, “air-to-ground” being militaryspeak for “bombing.”

Nachumi saw Raz raise his eyebrows ever so slightly. Otherwise he showed no emotion.

“Remember, this is classified,” Ivry said levelly. “You’re not to discuss the mission with anyone. Not even your wives.”

The men could have smiled. So far, there had been almost nothing to discuss. Following the first meeting in May when Ivry had told him to train for long-range navigation, Raz had gone straight to the Ramat David operations room and looked at the huge map of the Middle East mounted on the wall. Using a calculator, he quickly determined the optimum distance of the F-16 to be 560 miles. He cut a piece of string to match the map’s legend of 600 miles, pinned one end of the string at Tel Aviv and then traced a 600-mile circle around the map. Looking at his rotating bull’s-eye, Raz guessed somewhere inside Syria.

Ilan Ramon was the youngest of the eight pilots. He was twenty-seven and the only bachelor in the squadron. With thick dark hair and boyish good looks, he usually commanded the attention of any unattached female within hailing distance. But his good-natured, self-effacing charm and studious devotion to work also made him a favorite among the men. So did the fact that Ramon’s mother and grandmother were both Holocaust survivors who had made their way to Israel after surviving the Auschwitz death camp. Ramon was acutely aware of his family’s legacy, an unspoken yet profound conviction that seemed to bestow a kind of nobility to his youth and made his easy manner and openness all that more engaging. Ramon had been assigned as the squadron navigator. As a result, early on he had been apprised of the mission profile: a low-level, 600-mile flight with a tailwind to mission target; then a 600-mile, low-high return (which meant climbing and flying at high altitude) into headwinds. In the Middle East the prevailing winds are always easterly, blown in from the Mediterranean Sea, which sits off the western coast of Israel. Going with a tailwind meant flying east: looking 600 miles to the east on the map, Ramon was led to only one conclusion—Iraq. But where in Iraq, he wondered . . . Baghdad?

Hagai Katz, too, knew that a tailwind meant east, and that most likely indicated Iraq as the target. Then in September, Katz saw the headlines about the mysterious explosions at the Rome headquarters of SNIA, which was doing business with Hussein. Immediately he recognized Mossad’s handiwork and quickly put two and two together to come up with the Osirak reactor at al-Tuwaitha. As the realization dawned on him, he felt surprised, apprehensive, and elated all at the same time. Though he felt sure he had divined the target, Katz, remembering his security agreement, vowed to keep it to himself.

Ivry meanwhile had anticipated all along that his pilots would be doing their own calculations, trying to guess the target. Though it seemed like overkill to worry so intensely about secrecy, surprise was the single most critical element of the raid—without it the chances of success were very slim. To throw the pilots off, during a briefing Ivry let slip a reference to “Habbaniyah,” an Iraqi airfield west of Baghdad that was home base to Saddam’s squadron of Soviet-made Tupolev fighters that had the range to reach Tel Aviv. He hoped that this red herring would misdirect the pilots. After all, Habbaniyah was a credible threat. But the pilots were already way ahead of him, and by the end of 1980 most of them had quietly decided that the target was somewhere deep inside Iraq—and, God help them, probably nuclear.

SUNDAY, JUNE 7, 1981
1510 HOURS: T-MINUS 00:51
ETZION AIR FORCE BASE, OCCUPIED SINAI PENINSULA

The controller’s voice crackled in his headphones.

“1–3–3 Squadron cleared for takeoff.”

“Roger,” the pilot, a lieutenant colonel stationed out of Tel-Nof AFB in the north, replied.

Six F-15s had taxied out of their camouflaged hangars at the end of the runway and were holding on the tarmac, open to any intelligence satellites from the United States or the Soviet Union that might be orbiting overhead. The squadron leader barely gave it a thought. Like his superiors, he knew it was too late for any prying eyes to figure out what they were up to. The pilot returned to his preflight checkoff. The F-15 pilots did not have the luxury of the main attack squadron’s F-16s and their computerized BITS, which automatically isolated and assessed each of the aircraft’s weapons, navigation, electrical, mechanical, and communications systems. Instead, they had to manually check off each system one at a time, flipping switches and waiting for the green lights to blink back, a time-consuming process. As one of the support fighters that would shadow the attack group all the way to target, he was among the few who knew the mission destination. He had never flown into Iraqi territory. Not that it mattered.

His team was ready for takeoff now, an hour ahead of the mission squadron. They would circle west of Aqaba and wait for the eight F-16s to re-form, then follow them into Iraq. His job was to jam Iraqi radar over al-Tuwaitha with the F-15s’ powerful ECMs and engage any MiGs that challenged the attack. Besides four Sidewinder air-to-air and four radar-guided Sparrow missiles, his plane carted 500 rounds of 20mm cannon fire that could be dispensed at the rate of 6,000 rounds a minute in short bursts. Enough to shred a MiG in seconds. At last the squadron leader gave the Go signal. He pulled back on his joystick, hearing the plane’s twin engines rev and feeling the plane vibrate with the power as the first two hunter jets in front of him shot into the air and soared eastward. Following, he hit the afterburners and was pinned to his seat, his plane hurtling heavenward, for now blue, calm, and cloudless.

CHAPTER 4

                                                                                                                                       
THE WAITING

No plan, no matter how perfect,
survives first contact with the enemy.

—
UNITED STATES ARMY MAXIM

For months, Operations’ engineers and experts labored intensely over their computers in Tel Aviv trying to solve the mission’s biggest obstacle—physics. Ivry and his staff had long ago rejected in-flight refueling as far too risky to attempt over enemy desert terrain. Besides, it had become a moot point because the Iranian-ordered F-16s had been designed to U.S. Navy specifications, which meant that the refueling baskets were on the bottom of the planes. Israeli tanker planes only refueled to the top of the aircraft, the same as the U.S. Air Force. The F-16s would have to get to Baghdad and back on one tank, so to speak.

General Dynamics test pilots, flying at fuel-conserving high altitudes and carrying no ordnance, had been able to extend the flight of the F-16s to two hours, fifteen minutes. The operational team, running numerous performance models based on planes flying low-level navigation and carrying two two-thousand-pound bombs one way, then flying high altitude with no ordnance on return, estimated flight time at three hours, ten minutes. The engineers and performance experts had to find another hour of flying time and fuel.

The physics of fuel consumption during flight are fairly basic: Discounting the vagaries of engine efficiency and pilot performance, fuel consumption is determined by two factors: weight and drag—that is, the physical resistance, or friction, to an object moving through air molecules. The more weight and bulk, the more drag and, thus, the more energy needed to propel the object.

For months the operational team worked up various performance drafts and modelings. With each new modeling, Raz’s pilots would test the calculations in real time. The engineering team would then debrief the pilots, compare the real-time results with the computer modelings, and make the necessary adjustments. It was a long, stressful, sometimes dangerous process. And there were plenty of factors to account for. They tested fuel range with and without external wing tanks, with two or four A-As (air-to-air) missiles, and with four-plane, eight-plane, and twelve-plane formations. Flying in squadron formation increased fuel consumption because pilots were forced to maneuver in a group, varying their speed and vectors in order to maintain a constant distance between one another. Low-level flying consumed more fuel since air close to the ground is heavier than the thin air at high altitudes and requires more fuel to overcome the increased drag. Critical ECS, or electronic jamming systems, that allowed pilots to evade SAM radar and air-to-air missile tracking had to be jettisoned because the mechanism hung below the fuselage, creating more weight and drag. In addition, the jamming mechanism took the place of an external centerline fuel tank that could carry an extra 2,000 pounds of fuel, or 370 gallons. Something had to give—invariably it was pilot safety.

The long-distance flying posed practical problems for Israel as well. The country was only 210 miles long and 45 miles wide at its narrowest. That meant the pilots could not complete their long-range training flights within the nation’s secure borders. Instead, Raz and his men had to begin their runs above the Mediterranean island of Cyprus and then follow the coast of Israel south, past the Gaza Strip and the Sinai to Sharm al-Sheikh at the southern tip of the peninsula, and then fly back the same way to Ramat David. The training flights to expand the long-range capabilities of the F-16s began at shorter distances and grew longer until matching the mission profile of 1,200 miles. Sometimes the flights were only an hour; other days they extended to three or four hours.

As far as the pilots were concerned, the majority of work was training their bodies. They were not prepared for the unexpected difficulties of long-distance flying. In the Mideast, enemy borders were dozens of miles away, not the hundreds or even thousands of miles distant they were for U.S. or British pilots. Damascus was only sixty-eight miles from Ramat David. In combat situations Israeli pilots had their weapons systems activated as soon as they were wheels-up. At the time the long-distance record was held by the IAF squadrons that had bombed the Suez Canal in ’67. Most of Raz’s pilots had never flown longer than an hour. Much of the initial training entailed building endurance, getting used to the bodily stress caused by extreme-range flying.

One of the pilots, Rani Falk, had just returned from Hill. An F-4 instructor at Hatzerim, Falk, along with Ilan Ramon and Relik Shafir, was among the youngest of the pilots. He had grown up in a farm village in the Jezreel Valley, not far from Raz’s kibbutz, and like Zeev had spent days watching the planes soaring overhead to the nearby air force base. He was tall, broad-shouldered, open, and easygoing with a quick grin. He and Raz became close, perhaps because both men came from the same small village life and retained the same simple, straightforward values—honesty, hard work, and above all loyalty. Like Yaffe, Falk was a born pilot who had an instinctual ability to feel out his aircraft, to anticipate its response. But even for Falk, the long-distance flying could be brutal. He would return from his flights exhausted, grimy, clammy, and cranky, then have to attend debriefings to go over problems and mistakes. Sometimes the debriefing took longer than the mission.

Falk’s first long-distance flight was a shock. When he reached Sharm al-Sheikh after what seemed an eternity, he was amazed to look up and see his INS (inertial navigation system) read just six hundred miles—only half the flight distance. After being cooped up in a cramped cockpit for hours—flying low-level, keeping eyes fixed on the wing leader, watching out for a sudden ridge or hill while continually checking instruments, maintaining distance and altitude, and flicking back and forth to the glass HUD as he also thought about fuel, risk, and the target—Falk’s body felt as though he’d been beat up. Later the pilots learned that they burned so many calories, they lost from one to four pounds per flight.

Yaffe and Shafir quickly discovered another worrisome drawback. Flying in the 30-degree-tilted cockpit with knees pressed nearly to head level made trying to answer the call of nature impossible. For one thing, gravity worked against them. The urgency was made all the more pressing because the pilots were required to drink a great deal of water to stay hydrated. Since the fly-by-wire control stick was on the right side of the cockpit instead of in the middle, Shafir discovered that he was forced to try and open his pants zipper, already encumbered by a flight suit, with his left hand—a challenge he found impossible. Eventually he surrendered to the inevitable and urinated in his pants. As if that were not bad enough, the air-conditioning vent was exactly at crotch level, quickly chilling Shafir’s wet lower parts to an excruciating degree.

At the end of one run, after he had touched down, Nachumi watched with alarm as Shafir came in fast at an unusually steep angle, hit the runway hard, threw on the afterburners, and jammed on the brakes, trailing a blue cloud of smoking rubber. He popped the cockpit, jumped down, and ran to the side of the runway. Nachumi, thinking the plane was on fire, radioed for an emergency vehicle and quickly climbed out of his plane. Bounding down the runway, he arrived to find Shafir stooped down in the weeds, surrounded by the emergency crew.

“Sorry,” Shafir said, looking embarrassed but relieved. “I had stomach problems.”

Hagai Katz, ever thorough and organized, took the time to assemble a homemade instruction manual for the pilots. Included were checklists of everything the pilots might need during flight—how to adjust the weapons systems, the radar functions, the navigation instruments. He made photocopies of the lists, then inserted each list into its own plastic sleeve and gathered them all in a notebook, like a photo album. He gave one of these notebooks to each pilot to use as a quick reference guide in flight.

One of the pilots was Amos Yadlin, an F-4 major who had recently returned from Hill with Falk and the third group. Tall, thin, with a full head of Kennedy-like brown hair, Yadlin appeared almost professorial, a look that complemented his quick, perceptive mind. He was also a seasoned combat veteran, seeing plenty of action in the Yom Kippur War. In some ways Yadlin was an easiergoing version of Raz. But Yadlin had a devilish side as well. One day when the teams were returning from another trek down to Sharm al-Sheikh, he jogged up to Katz standing on the tarmac, yelling, “You saved my life! Your checklist saved my life.”

“How?” Katz asked, gratified and, to be honest, a little surprised his notebook had come in handy so quickly. “I just made it.”

“Well, I had to pee,” Yadlin replied. “I couldn’t think of what to do. And then I remembered your checklists. I opened up one sleeve at a time and peed into them like a cup.”

Yadlin grinned as Katz looked at him in horror.

“They held the entire load!” Yadlin added proudly.

The squadron pilots overhearing the conversation broke into howls of laughter. Chagrined, Katz marched back down the tarmac to the briefing room alone.

Months into training it had become obvious the F-16s would have to carry two external fuel tanks, one under each wing. Designed by GD, each tank added an additional 3,000 pounds, or 450 gallons, of fuel. But carrying the two detachable tanks and two 2,000-pound slick bombs, the fighters had room for only two Sidewinders, one at the end of each wing, instead of the usual four. And, as already decided, there would be no jamming devices. The pilots would be at an even worse disadvantage.

The fuel problem was still not solved, however. During training flights Raz’s pilots were consistently running short of fuel, even with the wing tanks. The only thing that could help was to carry an optional centerline fuel tank, which held another 2,000 pounds, or 300 gallons, of fuel. But there was a problem: Israel had no centerline tanks. The U.S. Defense Department had excluded centerline tanks from the trade agreement. Since the planes had been sold to Israel on the strict condition that they be used for defensive purposes only, there was no reason, in the opinion of the U.S. Defense Department, that the IAF would need such tanks for long-range flying. Ivry immediately put in a plea for twelve centerline tanks. The Israeli Defense Ministry, the Foreign Ministry, and the ambassador to the U.S. all went to work intensely lobbying the U.S. to sell Israel the centerline tanks. In the meantime all Ivry could do was wait . . . and sweat.

The northern commander at Tel-Nof Air Force Base near Galilee, Gen. Avihu Ben-Nun, saw a new opening for his F-15s. The IAF had finally convinced the United States to sell Israel the F-15 conformal fuel tanks. Fastened to the fuselage at the base of the wings, the tanks would give the F-15s the range to reach Baghdad and back. Once again Ivry was forced to fend off another challenge to the F-16s as Ben-Nun argued to Eitan and high command that his F-15 squadron should be given the mission. Ivry countered that they had already progressed far into mission training at Ramat David. Ben Nun took Ivry’s refusal to make a switch as a personal rebuff. Meanwhile, word leaked down the chain of command, and Raz’s squadron grew anxious that the mission—whatever it was—was going to be pulled out from under them.

And then things got complicated.

Ever since Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini had landed in Tehran in February 1979, Saddam had kept a jaundiced eye to his east. Socialist and secular, Hussein distrusted the bearded, fanatically religious Shi’ite Muslims who ruled Iran and made up the majority of the population in the southern half of his own country.

“This place hardly seems like part of Iraq,” Khidhir Hamza recalled Hussein grousing one day as a mob of Iraqi Shi’ite demonstrators chanted Khomeini’s name in the streets. “They don’t even speak Arabic.”

On September 17, 1980, Hussein, convinced that Iran was plotting his assassination with Iraqi Shi’ites, canceled a 1975 peace treaty with Iran and invaded the disputed Shatt al Arab estuary in the north of the Persian Gulf that formed the border between the two countries. Hostilities quickly escalated, and by September 22 the nations were in a state of all-out war, conducting air and large-scale ground assaults.

The evening of September 30, Ivry was still at work at Tel Aviv headquarters when he was informed that at least two Iranian F-4 Phantoms had just bombed al-Tuwaitha. Intelligence was still trying to get details, but initial reports indicated that the bombs had missed the reactor and damaged some laboratories and support facilities. The most serious blow was to Osirak’s water-cooling system and plumbing, which took a direct hit. In the end the damage was minor. Begin was furious, cursing the incompetent Iranians who could not “finish the job.” Ivry was also disturbed, but for a more practical reason. In response, Iraq put all its antiaircraft defenses on “alert time,” meaning the readiness time of al-Tuwaitha’s AAA batteries was significantly heightened. And, as an extra protection, Iraq launched a ring of tethered balloons twenty feet high around the Nuclear Center’s walls to interfere with low-flying bombers. Ivry’s already impossible attack plan was, if possible, now even more difficult. What could go wrong next? he wondered.