Outside, the desert air was volcanic hot, the sun an angry white ball burning high above, bleaching the sky a desiccated blue. Raz stared down the runway to the hangar. Sheets of heat waves shimmered off the baking tarmac. The pilots carried their gear into the maintenance center, where crew chiefs and mechanics stole glances at them. Everyone knew that something big was going on, though no one knew what. The pilots signed for their planes and checked the maintenance reports. The F-15 pilots broke off, heading for the camouflaged hangar at the head of the runway that housed their aircraft. The conformal fuel tanks had been bolted onto the fuselages, and each plane was armed with four heat-seeking Sidewinders and four radar-controlled Sparrows as well as some five hundred rounds of 20mm cannon fire.
Raz’s group passed the open-ended green hangar where the four backup F-16s were parked and headed to the eight armed and waiting planes each man had been flying for the last six months—with the exception of Raz and Yadlin, who had swapped. The aircraft had been moved out of the underground hangar and into the hot sun—exposed to the prying eyes of American and Soviet spy satellites orbiting high above the earth’s atmosphere—to avoid any maneuvering and sharp turns around corners. The planes were thousands of pounds overweight and Operations feared the extra pressure could collapse the landing gears.
The pilots climbed out of the vans and walked around their planes checking for hydraulic or fuel leaks, the bomb attachments, tire pressure, and any nicks or dents that might have gone unnoticed. At the tips of each wing were affixed the lethal heatseeking Sidewinder-9L air-to-air missiles, the most up-to-date models that tracked not only the heat from the exhaust systems but the heat caused by the friction of the aircraft flying through air. The pilots couldn’t help but notice that their aircraft looked, somehow, well, fat. Indeed, sitting on the hot taxiways, the F-16s looked like overloaded beasts of burden sagging under their lots. Katz worried: Could they really get them off the ground?
Finally, one by one the pilots climbed the metal ladders into the cockpits. Raz’s plane was in the lead. His initial business was to settle in, try to get comfortable. He attached the parachute risers from his ejection seat to his body harness. Next, he plugged his G-suit ring into the cockpit air pump to blow up the protective bladders, which functioned somewhat like automobile airbags. He then snapped on the survival kit, complete with 9mm handgun, first aid, extra water, food packets, bandages, pain pills, even shark repellent—a holdover from standard World War II British protocol. He buckled his seat belt and switched the IFF (identification friend-or-foe) to standby mode, so the radio would not emit any electronic signal and give him away. Then he looked up. The crew chief straddling the ladder handed him his helmet.
“I don’t know where you’re going, sir. But good luck,” he said, slapping Raz on top of the helmet and closing the canopy.
Lined up behind Raz and Yadlin, Doobi Yaffe cranked his air-conditioning all the way up. Sitting in the sun under the glass canopy was like being in a greenhouse. The air-conditioning struggled to defeat the rising temperature inside. Behind Yaffe, Katz pulled on his fireproof gloves. He had cut the tip off the index finger of the left glove so he could see his fingernail. That way he could double-check his oxygen system. If he began suffering hypoxia, or lack of oxygen to the brain, a subtle condition that creeps up on a pilot gradually, making him drowsy and interfering with his reasoning abilities before causing unconsciousness, his fingernail would turn purple.
This was nervous time. Once airborne, instinct and training would take over, forcing out any doubts. Each man had his own way of dealing with it. Spector spent the time looking over his maps, going over the mission in his mind. He thought of it as similar to being an actor on Broadway waiting behind the curtain for his cue. When the curtain went up, there he was: ready to take the stage. As he waited, Shafir considered for a moment his only real fear: not letting the team down, not making the big mistake. As for being killed? Well, that was out of his control.
Like the other pilots, Amir Nachumi was busy running through his checkoff procedures with his crew chief. When he hit the switch to check the electrical system, there was no response. He couldn’t believe it. He flipped the switch again. And again, nothing. He began flipping more switches, rechecking gauges. The plane’s electronics system had failed, including the INS navigation and threat warning. Nachumi called his maintenance chief.
“I’m going to kill you,” he snapped, completely frustrated.
“What’s wrong?”
“I got a no-go on the electronics,” Nachumi said. He was angry.