“We will destroy Osirak,” he declared. “We must delay this Satanic plan for years to come.”
The weekend of May 10, 1981, was unusually busy inside the walled compound of Etzion Air Force Base, some twenty miles inland from the Israeli resort town of Eilat. Most Israeli soldiers were routinely given the weekend off to observe the Sabbath. But this weekend all leaves and passes at the base had been canceled. The base’s telephone lines, with the exception of key operational communications, were cut off by order of the army’s Security Field Service.
Altogether, fifty aircraft, CH-53 helicopters, and hundreds of troops were mustering for the attack, though only the mission pilots and high command knew what the target was. The CH-53s carrying combat search-and-rescue crews would take off an hour before the F-16s and then hover over the eastern borders of Israel for the remainder of the mission. Eight F-15s would fly support: two two-man F-15s to follow behind the F-16s and circle high above Saudi Arabia while serving as communications relay stations, and six F-15 fighters from Squadron 133—two to provide radar jamming above the target area, and four flying at a high altitude and distance to provide air-to-air combat support if needed.
Early Sunday afternoon, in the huge hangar, hundreds of technicians were checking and rechecking the twelve F-16s, loading ordnance, and affixing air-to-air Sidewinder missiles beneath the wings. At the door of the base squadron room, dozens of F-16 and F-15 pilots, crew members, and commanding officers, having completed final briefing, were climbing the stairs from the briefing room to ground level. The men’s faces were taut, expressionless. There was no small talk. Rani Falk was as keyed up as the others. But his excitement was tempered with disappointment. After all, he had trained for this day alongside the other men from the beginning. Until recently he thought he would be going with them. Now he was a backup pilot—on hand only for the most dire emergency. He was not angry or resentful. But he felt let down. He had to keep himself ready, though. You never knew. He would fire up his F-16 and taxi it out of the hangar just like the others.
A Mossad officer, his right hand clutching a black briefcase, approached the group of pilots outside. Suddenly the snap of his briefcase popped and the bottom fell open, spilling out thousands of dollars in Iraqi dinars. The bills blew down the runway past surprised mechanics and passersby. The dinars were for the pilots in the event someone was downed behind enemy lines. The money could be used as a bribe for safety. The officer hurriedly gathered up the bills, too panicked to be shamefaced. Amos Yadlin smiled grimly. So much for any doubts about the destination of their top-secret mission.
The time just before takeoff was the worst. Once in the air the men would be busy with the job at hand. But waiting around . . . the thoughts began to creep in. The mental box opening ever so much. The doubts, though, were a fear of making a mistake, of somehow letting the team down. Few thought about personal safety.
Second team leader Nachumi had gone ahead of the others to start his plane’s engine and begin checkoff procedures with his maintenance chief. He was running over the switches, checking navigation, weapons, electrical. He looked up to see his chief standing in front of the plane gesturing to him. He was slashing one finger across his throat. Nachumi could not believe his eyes. That was a kill gesture.
“What?” he yelled into his helmet microphone over the deafening whine of the Pratt & Whitney.
He was wound up like a spring.
“It’s a ‘No go,’ ” came the crew chief’s response.
“Shit!” Nachumi exclaimed.
The pilots were given the news: The prime minister himself had cancelled the mission. It took a moment for what had been said to sink in. They were stricken. Yadlin was pumped with adrenaline, his mind and body intensely focused, coiled—as though he were in another dimension. Now suddenly the air was let out. He felt as though he had been stabbed. Spector, who’d had missions scrubbed before, immediately worried that this was it—the raid might be called off for good.
The hundreds of troops stood down, the F-15 pilots were recalled to base, the helicopters sent home. Hundreds and hundreds of man-hours, hundreds of thousands of dollars, wasted. What the hell had happened? Ivry wondered.
Several hours earlier that Sunday morning, Begin had been interrupted at his home by a special courier carrying an urgent letter from Shimon Peres, the former defense minister and the Labor Party’s candidate for prime minister. Peres had learned the date of the attack the previous evening, May 9.
Begin read the note.
May 10
PERSONAL—TOP SECRET
Mr. Prime Minister: