Raid on the Sun(67)

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 shrugged, 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.