“It’s the reactor,” the man told Hamza, his eyes wide, his forehead beaded with sweat. “They destroyed it. It’s the Israelis this time.”
Hamza did not doubt it. Who else had such aircraft? He had seen that the planes streaking above were a newer, highly sophisticated fighter. Certainly American-made. For some time the al-Tuwaitha scientists had been concerned about the Israelis. They knew that Mossad and the IDF could be ruthless when threatened. Rumors about the death of al-Meshad and the La Seyne-sur-Mer explosions had spread throughout the center. Like the rest of the Osirak engineers, Hamza for some time had felt that no one was safe from the reach of Israel’s wrath. But this strike marked a radical shift in the Jewish nation’s campaign against Saddam.
Hamza retrieved his VW Passat and drove home as fast as he could. Curiously, there was nothing on Baghdad radio about the air raid. As he pulled into his driveway, Hamza saw his wife waiting for him at the door. She was nearly hysterical. The television had gone out completely, the screen filled with grainy snow and interference. And then a neighbor had called to tell her that planes were attacking Baghdad. Hamza knew the television interference was from electronic jamming. The mission was well planned—and obviously Israeli. He calmed his wife down, assuring her that they were safe. Israel had already accomplished its objective.
He poured himself a scotch and then called the deputy director at Atomic Energy.
“The reactor is gone,” the deputy director told him. “But Isis is okay. And they missed the Italian labs.” Small consolation, Hamza thought, but he did not share his opinion with the bureaucrat.
At thirty-five thousand feet, twenty miles west of Hamza, Raz focused on gathering the pilots together for the return home. And still he fretted about the buffeting of his plane. He was sure he must have been hit. He signaled Yadlin to close in and give his plane a visual inspection.
Yadlin dropped below and scanned for any signs of damage to the fuselage or wings, any bullet holes or frag hits. He found nothing. Pulling even with Raz’s fighter, he signaled a thumbs-up: everything looked okay. Raz was puzzled. Well, he thought, he would have to wait until they landed to review the video and figure out what the heck had happened. He opened his radio frequency, waiting for the pilots to check in. Raz and Yadlin were in visual contact: Blue One and Blue Two. Yaffe radioed “Blue Three,” dropping in on the other side of Raz’s wing. Then Katz, “Blue Four.” Nachumi’s team was next. After what seemed like an eternity, Nachumi finally radioed in, “Blue Five.” He was followed quickly by Spector: “Blue Six.” Shafir checked in, “Blue Seven.” Ramon was next. But Raz heard nothing.
Raz waited.
Where the hell is Ilan? Raz thought, growing concerned. He felt a sudden hollowness in the pit of his stomach. Ramon had had the worst of it as the number eight. Did he make it?
Raz twisted in his cockpit, anxiously scanning the skies around him. Dammit, the youngest . . . why would we give him the hardest position? What were we thinking? Where in God’s name is he?
Raz fingered the radio switch, then searched the skies again. He could stand it no longer. Against orders he switched on the radio and broke silence.
“Blue Eight, Blue Eight. Check in! Where are you?”
Following far to the rear, Ramon was startled to hear his call sign break in over the radio headset. He realized that in all the excitement, he had forgotten to check back. “Shi’in” (“Shit”), he swore to himself in Arabic.
“Blue Eight, roger,” he radioed. “Joining up now.”
Raz blew a stream of air between his teeth. Thank God. He switched on his radio again, then sent out the code word to Sella for “all clear.” “Charlie,” Raz radioed.
Circling high above Saudi Arabia, Sella heard the long-awaited code word. Everyone was accounted for. Everyone was safe. They had survived. The mission was a success. He felt elated. But there was no time to celebrate. It was not over yet. Sella radioed back to Etzion: “Charlie!” Mission completed. All the planes were returning to base.
The command bunker broke into a spontaneous cheer at the communication. What had seemed an eternity, during which the mind conjured the most horrendous images, had ended with a word. The pilots were safe. Ivry nearly trembled with relief. But he quickly collected himself. They were not home yet. They still had to cross Jordan. He passed the word on to Eitan. The strike force was heading home.
The chief of staff called Begin at his office in Tel Aviv.
“Mr. Prime Minister,” Eitan said, “the mission was accomplished without losses. The planes are returning to base.”