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.