Raid on the Sun(49)

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.