“Let me know when they get back,” Begin replied, trying to tamp down his excitement.
When he hung up, despite his best efforts to keep his emotions in check, the prime minister burst out with the news to his ministers.
“The pilots are home safe! There were no casualties. The mission has been a success!” he all but screamed at the assembled ministers, their faces twisted with a mixture of dread and anticipation.
The cabinet room fairly vibrated with the sudden release of pent-up tension. A wave of intoxicating relief broke across the prime minister’s residence where they had gathered. Cabinet ministers, grinning widely, some with tears in their eyes, slapped one another’s backs or hugged one another. “Praise God,” many uttered. Yaffe’s mother, Mitka, tearing up herself, moved quickly to find a telephone. She had a call to make. Hurriedly, she dialed her son’s phone number at the base residence, her hand nearly shaking as she listened to the phone ring on the other end.
“Hello,” Michal Yaffe answered, tentatively.
Doobi’s wife had been wandering from the living room to the kitchen and back for hours, sitting and flipping through a magazine without seeing the pages, then tossing the magazine down and walking back to the kitchen to stare out the small rectangular window that looked onto the narrow street outside. Anything not to stare at the telephone. On the table next to the sink was a bottle of unopened French cognac and two empty glasses. Ramat David had been quiet for hours now, the distant sound of her husband’s F-16s nonexistent all afternoon.
Suddenly, just after seven o’clock, the phone rang. Her heart seemed to clutch. Her lungs felt like they were collapsing. Now she understood the familiar saying about your heart leaping into your throat. Except they never mentioned the wave of nausea that hit the stomach at the same time.
On the other end of the line, Michal recognized her mother-in-law’s voice. My God, what would she tell her. . . . ?
“Pour yourself a brandy,” Mitka said simply, using the code the two women had agreed upon: the signal that Doobi was back safe. And alive. Michal felt her knees starting to buckle, literally. Her strength just seemed to gush out of her.
“Oh! Yes. Of course,” Michal exclaimed. “Thank you, Mitka. I will! Thank you.”
The F-15 pilots, circling in their barcaps, also heard the code word “Charlie.” Immediately the pilots climbed to altitude and fell in formation behind the F-16s, ready to supply cover if needed. Their search radar continued to show no MiGs in the area. The raid had caught the Iraqis by complete surprise.
Raz climbed to 38,000 feet, where the intelligence forecaster had predicted the weakest headwinds. He checked his computer readout: indeed, there were virtually no air currents. But at this altitude, the F-16s’ exhaust would leave behind contrails in the cold, moist air, making the planes easier to spot. The squadron still had to cross Jordanian airspace, where MiGs could well be waiting for them. Raz zoomed up to 40,000 feet. At that elevation there was less moisture, and the planes would not produce telltale contrails. But his HUD showed headwinds there at 125 knots. That would cancel out most of the fuel efficiency they would gain by flying in the thinner air. Should he take the safer, slower route, flying virtually invisible at 40,000 but risk running out of fuel, or should he head for home as fast as possible at the lower, more fuel-efficient altitude? Raz opted for the faster route and descended back to 38,000 feet. If they ran into MiGs . . . ? Well, they would deal with that if it happened. He set a direct course between Baghdad and Etzion, cutting straight across the northern “panhandle” of Saudi Arabia and the southern portion of Jordan. The eight fighters roared west, streaking bright white chalk marks across the blue skies behind them.
Seeing the F-16s level off at 38,000 feet, the six F-15s climbed to 41,000 feet and mothered them home.
Raz was so relieved to be finally heading home that he found himself singing in the cockpit. He smiled, a little embarrassed. The Jordanians could still challenge them. He kept an eye on his instruments as well. He continued to suspect that his plane was experiencing mechanical difficulties. Behind him, Nachumi and Spector were also concerned about the violent shaking their planes had experienced during their escape maneuvers. The two pilots flew above and below each other, inspecting for any external signs of damage. Neither could detect anything on the other’s fighter. Even so, Nachumi continued to monitor his instrumentation carefully.
Meanwhile, up ahead, Yaffe anxiously eyed his fuel indicator. Since not topping off, he had worried that he did not have the fuel to get home. Ramon couldn’t help himself. He broke radio silence just long enough to relay a one-word message to Yaffe: “Alhambra!” It was the name of Tel Aviv’s finest restaurant—the payoff he had wagered with Yaffe that they would all make it back safe. Doobi was on the hook for the most expensive dinner of his life.