Raid on the Sun

by Rodger W. Claire

  Nachumi’s group began its final run, he and Spector in the lead. Nachumi had navigated perfectly—the two lead fighters were exactly thirty seconds behind the number three and four bombers, Yaffe and Katz. The sky above al-Tuwaitha was filled with streaking tracers and gray clouds of exploded AAA. An air-to-air fighter pilot, Nachumi was familiar with one-on-one encounters. But this was more antiaircraft fire than he had ever seen in his life. Ten years later he would be reminded of the scene again while watching CNN’s images of the skies above Baghdad during the Persian Gulf War. The F-16’s threat system still showed no SAM batteries lighted up. But it was literally raining AAA. And it was scary as hell.

  Worried about Shafir and Ramon, who would be even more exposed, the second team leader closed the distance between Yaffe and Katz and his plane. Spector, in weld-wing formation, closed along with him. Such in-flight proximity was highly dangerous, but Nachumi decided protecting his seven and eight bombers was worth the risk. “Well, what are you going to do?” Nachumi mumbled to himself.

  He looked out the canopy and saw Spector just off his left wing, exactly in position. His eyes switched from the HUD to the dome and back again. He had seen Yaffe and Katz drop their ordnance, but still there was no dust, no smoke. Had they hit the dome wrong? he thought anxiously. Then he remembered that the dome would contain much of the force of the initial explosions. And, of course, the first bombs were on a delayed fuse. Nachumi drove them down, past 3,500 feet. He wanted to be absolutely sure to hit the target. At 3,400 feet he pickled off his bombs, then angled ninety degrees left and began his climb. As his afterburner kicked in, he felt the plane being buffeted about. What the heck? he thought. Was it a SAM? He scanned his instruments. Nothing.

  “Let’s get out of here!” he yelled into his radio mouthpiece, not intending the message for anyone in particular.

  Spector began his final approach just seconds behind Nachumi. He had been fighting the flu and fever the entire flight. He willed himself to ignore it, but the fever was sapping his strength nonetheless. Spector initiated pop-up, shooting to five thousand feet in seconds. The blood seemed to drain from his head. As he nosed down he felt dizzy, light-headed—and then for a brief moment, he lost track of where he was. He shook it off. Had he blacked out? He wasn’t sure. The colonel continued his dive, struggling to keep his focus on the pipper and the bomb-fall line while at the same time keeping a wary eye out for MiGs. He realized that his lack of training time in the F-16 was a handicap at the moment. The altimeter whirled before him. He followed Nachumi down. But something was wrong. He was not where he was supposed to be. The pipper was not dead on the target and he was at 3,500. At 3,400 feet he pickled off the bombs. As the MK-84s disappeared beneath him, Spector hit the afterburner and shot skyward. Behind him, Osirak quickly fell away, shrinking into a tiny square on the earth below. But it was no good. Spector was far too professional, far too good a combat pilot not to know. He had missed. His bombs had not hit the target. He had failed. The realization came to him like a knife to the gut.

  Shafir and Ramon, the final pair, followed immediately behind Spector. They did not see that their commander had missed the target. The sky was too thick with AAA and the unmistakable contrails of shoulder-mounted, Soviet-made SA-7 missiles. Smaller than the radar-controlled SAM-6s, the sleek, heatseeking SA-7s were every bit as deadly. Shafir breathed hard through clenched teeth, the threat receiver a background of dissonant noise. Deadly puffs of clouds continued to mushroom all around him. Ramon spotted an SA-7 streaking by on the right not more than twenty meters from his wing. The sight of the deadly contrail made him uncomfortable, but he was not surprised. All their briefings had told them to expect as much.

  Shafir and Ramon continued their approach on final. And then suddenly, the dome beneath them exploded outward in a mammoth cloud of black, acrid smoke followed by spectacular flames leaping hundreds of feet into the air. The delayed fuses dropped by Raz and Yadlin had detonated. Shafir and Ramon were now forced to release blindly into the smoke, hopefully avoiding the shrapnel and debris of the immense conflagration below. Well, Shafir told himself, the number seven and eight spots are always the riskiest; it was the lot they had drawn.

  At 3,400 feet Shafir pulled up, followed in sync by Ramon on his right wing. The two pilots released their bombs into the crumbling dome, then rocketed up and away to the running rendezvous with the rest of the squadron at 30,000 feet. As Ramon climbed, the last pilot out, the dome of Osirak erupted below in one final thunderous fireball. Seen in the videotape later, the exploding dome would look very much like a special-effects scene. For the first time in history, a nuclear reactor had been bombed and obliterated.

  All that remained was to return home.

  Jacques Rimbaud, another French technician, sat enjoying a Pernod and water on a patio café in the small village next to the al-Tuwaitha plant. Like most of the French techs, Rimbaud took Sundays off, especially Sunday evenings, even though it was a workday for Iraqis. He was jolted from his reveries by the deafening scream of jet fighters, which soared overhead seemingly out of nowhere. As Rimbaud watched, it looked to him as if two planes made a pass over the reactor, and then a second pair dropped bombs. These planes, he excitedly told the other patrons who had rushed outside to see what the commotion was about, were followed by four fighters.

  “They are taking pictures of the area to confirm damage,” he explained, taking for granted that the fact that he had seen the planes first made him the tacit expert on the scene.

  As the planes circled and raced west, Rimbaud ran down the dusty street to the Nuclear Research Center to see if his office was damaged. The guards at the main gate, still stunned from the attack, would not allow him in at first. Finally, after a good deal of yelling and explaining, and after checking his worker identification, the guards allowed him inside. Within the walls of al-Tuwaitha, soldiers and firefighters were rushing toward the reactor and the administration building. Individuals were running in all directions, some carrying files and paperwork, others seemingly confused. Security men with bullhorns were shouting orders to crowds of workers and other soldiers who did not bother to listen. An acrid smell of explosives filled the air. Huge flames leaped from the dome in the center of the grounds, casting Stygian-like shadows across the sweaty faces of the fire crews and the panicked security guards, already afraid of repercussions.

  Rimbaud was stunned. He saw immediately that the damage to Osirak had to have been done by more than bombs from two planes. The reactor was demolished. He would not have believed that concrete and steel could be so smashed and twisted—like a child’s toy. A fellow worker recognized Rimbaud and approached him, clearly upset.

  “All these bombs must have fallen within one meter of the target!” the man exclaimed, astonished.

  SUNDAY, JUNE 7, 1981

  1905 HOURS

  OVER THE JORDANIAN BORDER

  The lieutenant checked his watch, then looked at the members of his CSAR crew. The pilot and the navigator up front held the chopper steady, listening intently for any comm over the radio. The pilot pulled back on the stick, steadying the CH-53 and fighting another updraft of warm desert air. They had been holding position just over the Jordanian border for nearly four hours, keeping a sharp eye out for bandits and waiting intently for the first crackle from one of the pilots’ PRCs. The lieutenant saw the fatigue in his men’s faces, the slightly swollen eyes, the expressions. There was no chatter, no complaining, the hallowed right of the noncom in any army. They were too tired to bitch. There had been no word from command and nothing from the Israeli aircraft. That was good news. But it was hard, waiting and wondering, crammed into the claustrophobic hindquarters of the helicopter, fighting for space with M-16s, ammo boxes, first-aid kits, infrared binoculars, field radios, and other sundry tools of the trade of search and rescue. Finally, as the sky to the east began to darken, the radio came to life. It was from Beersheva, giving the team the “all clear” signal to return to base. The men shru
gged, relieved that they could return home to hot food and hot showers. But still, there was a nagging sense of incompleteness. For not one of them knew what they had been waiting for or whether or not they should be celebrating or grieving.

  CHAPTER 7

  CHECK SIX

  Home is the sailor, home from the sea,

  And the hunter home from the hill.

  —ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON

  Khidhir Hamza stood frozen in front of the auto repair garage as the rumble of explosions came from the direction of al-Tuwaitha. In between, Hamza could make out the faint staccato of AAA fire. One final immense blast shook the ground beneath his feet. Seconds later another thunderous clap rolled over the garage as the eight F-16s, high in the sky now, flew back the way they had come. And then there was silence. As if in a dream, as quickly as they had appeared, the fighters disappeared, vanished into the west like ghost ships.

  Shaken, Hamza watched a plume of gray-white smoke snake into the sky to the south. He knew immediately what had happened. And he knew that the damage at the al-Tuwaitha “campus” would be nothing like the Iranian attack nine months earlier. He felt queasy.

  The wail of an ambulance raced down the highway from the direction of Baghdad. As the emergency vehicle went speeding past, lights flashing, Hamza recognized a colleague from the Nuclear Center driving in the opposite direction, from al-Tuwaitha. He waved him over to the side of the road.

  “It’s the reactor,” the man told Hamza, his eyes wide, his forehead beaded with sweat. “They destroyed it. It’s the Israelis this time.”

  Hamza did not doubt it. Who else had such aircraft? He had seen that the planes streaking above were a newer, highly sophisticated fighter. Certainly American-made. For some time the al-Tuwaitha scientists had been concerned about the Israelis. They knew that Mossad and the IDF could be ruthless when threatened. Rumors about the death of al-Meshad and the La Seyne-sur-Mer explosions had spread throughout the center. Like the rest of the Osirak engineers, Hamza for some time had felt that no one was safe from the reach of Israel’s wrath. But this strike marked a radical shift in the Jewish nation’s campaign against Saddam.

  Hamza retrieved his VW Passat and drove home as fast as he could. Curiously, there was nothing on Baghdad radio about the air raid. As he pulled into his driveway, Hamza saw his wife waiting for him at the door. She was nearly hysterical. The television had gone out completely, the screen filled with grainy snow and interference. And then a neighbor had called to tell her that planes were attacking Baghdad. Hamza knew the television interference was from electronic jamming. The mission was well planned—and obviously Israeli. He calmed his wife down, assuring her that they were safe. Israel had already accomplished its objective.

  He poured himself a scotch and then called the deputy director at Atomic Energy.

  “The reactor is gone,” the deputy director told him. “But Isis is okay. And they missed the Italian labs.” Small consolation, Hamza thought, but he did not share his opinion with the bureaucrat.

  At thirty-five thousand feet, twenty miles west of Hamza, Raz focused on gathering the pilots together for the return home. And still he fretted about the buffeting of his plane. He was sure he must have been hit. He signaled Yadlin to close in and give his plane a visual inspection.

  Yadlin dropped below and scanned for any signs of damage to the fuselage or wings, any bullet holes or frag hits. He found nothing. Pulling even with Raz’s fighter, he signaled a thumbs-up: everything looked okay. Raz was puzzled. Well, he thought, he would have to wait until they landed to review the video and figure out what the heck had happened. He opened his radio frequency, waiting for the pilots to check in. Raz and Yadlin were in visual contact: Blue One and Blue Two. Yaffe radioed “Blue Three,” dropping in on the other side of Raz’s wing. Then Katz, “Blue Four.” Nachumi’s team was next. After what seemed like an eternity, Nachumi finally radioed in, “Blue Five.” He was followed quickly by Spector: “Blue Six.” Shafir checked in, “Blue Seven.” Ramon was next. But Raz heard nothing.

  Raz waited.

  Where the hell is Ilan? Raz thought, growing concerned. He felt a sudden hollowness in the pit of his stomach. Ramon had had the worst of it as the number eight. Did he make it?

  Raz twisted in his cockpit, anxiously scanning the skies around him. Dammit, the youngest . . . why would we give him the hardest position? What were we thinking? Where in God’s name is he?

  Raz fingered the radio switch, then searched the skies again. He could stand it no longer. Against orders he switched on the radio and broke silence.

  “Blue Eight, Blue Eight. Check in! Where are you?”

  Following far to the rear, Ramon was startled to hear his call sign break in over the radio headset. He realized that in all the excitement, he had forgotten to check back. “Shi’in” (“Shit”), he swore to himself in Arabic.

  “Blue Eight, roger,” he radioed. “Joining up now.”

  Raz blew a stream of air between his teeth. Thank God. He switched on his radio again, then sent out the code word to Sella for “all clear.” “Charlie,” Raz radioed.

  Circling high above Saudi Arabia, Sella heard the long-awaited code word. Everyone was accounted for. Everyone was safe. They had survived. The mission was a success. He felt elated. But there was no time to celebrate. It was not over yet. Sella radioed back to Etzion: “Charlie!” Mission completed. All the planes were returning to base.

  The command bunker broke into a spontaneous cheer at the communication. What had seemed an eternity, during which the mind conjured the most horrendous images, had ended with a word. The pilots were safe. Ivry nearly trembled with relief. But he quickly collected himself. They were not home yet. They still had to cross Jordan. He passed the word on to Eitan. The strike force was heading home.

  The chief of staff called Begin at his office in Tel Aviv.

  “Mr. Prime Minister,” Eitan said, “the mission was accomplished without losses. The planes are returning to base.”

  “Let me know when they get back,” Begin replied, trying to tamp down his excitement.

  When he hung up, despite his best efforts to keep his emotions in check, the prime minister burst out with the news to his ministers.

  “The pilots are home safe! There were no casualties. The mission has been a success!” he all but screamed at the assembled ministers, their faces twisted with a mixture of dread and anticipation.

  The cabinet room fairly vibrated with the sudden release of pent-up tension. A wave of intoxicating relief broke across the prime minister’s residence where they had gathered. Cabinet ministers, grinning widely, some with tears in their eyes, slapped one another’s backs or hugged one another. “Praise God,” many uttered. Yaffe’s mother, Mitka, tearing up herself, moved quickly to find a telephone. She had a call to make. Hurriedly, she dialed her son’s phone number at the base residence, her hand nearly shaking as she listened to the phone ring on the other end.

  “Hello,” Michal Yaffe answered, tentatively.

  Doobi’s wife had been wandering from the living room to the kitchen and back for hours, sitting and flipping through a magazine without seeing the pages, then tossing the magazine down and walking back to the kitchen to stare out the small rectangular window that looked onto the narrow street outside. Anything not to stare at the telephone. On the table next to the sink was a bottle of unopened French cognac and two empty glasses. Ramat David had been quiet for hours now, the distant sound of her husband’s F-16s nonexistent all afternoon.

  Suddenly, just after seven o’clock, the phone rang. Her heart seemed to clutch. Her lungs felt like they were collapsing. Now she understood the familiar saying about your heart leaping into your throat. Except they never mentioned the wave of nausea that hit the stomach at the same time.

  On the other end of the line, Michal recognized her mother-in-law’s voice. My God, what would she tell her. . . . ?

  “Pour yourself a brandy,” Mitka said simply, using the code the t
wo women had agreed upon: the signal that Doobi was back safe. And alive. Michal felt her knees starting to buckle, literally. Her strength just seemed to gush out of her.

  “Oh! Yes. Of course,” Michal exclaimed. “Thank you, Mitka. I will! Thank you.”

  The F-15 pilots, circling in their barcaps, also heard the code word “Charlie.” Immediately the pilots climbed to altitude and fell in formation behind the F-16s, ready to supply cover if needed. Their search radar continued to show no MiGs in the area. The raid had caught the Iraqis by complete surprise.

  Raz climbed to 38,000 feet, where the intelligence forecaster had predicted the weakest headwinds. He checked his computer readout: indeed, there were virtually no air currents. But at this altitude, the F-16s’ exhaust would leave behind contrails in the cold, moist air, making the planes easier to spot. The squadron still had to cross Jordanian airspace, where MiGs could well be waiting for them. Raz zoomed up to 40,000 feet. At that elevation there was less moisture, and the planes would not produce telltale contrails. But his HUD showed headwinds there at 125 knots. That would cancel out most of the fuel efficiency they would gain by flying in the thinner air. Should he take the safer, slower route, flying virtually invisible at 40,000 but risk running out of fuel, or should he head for home as fast as possible at the lower, more fuel-efficient altitude? Raz opted for the faster route and descended back to 38,000 feet. If they ran into MiGs . . . ? Well, they would deal with that if it happened. He set a direct course between Baghdad and Etzion, cutting straight across the northern “panhandle” of Saudi Arabia and the southern portion of Jordan. The eight fighters roared west, streaking bright white chalk marks across the blue skies behind them.