As darkness fell at Etzion, one hour behind Baghdad, Rani Falk waited along with the crew chiefs, who signaled the taxiing F-16s in with their red-tipped flashlights. The base was still dark, radio silence continued. The planes were directed to their underground hangar glowing bright under the glare of floodlights. The pilots emerged from their planes, blinking momentarily in the harsh glare after spending hours in the darkened cockpits. As they climbed down the ladders, the ground crews surrounded them, patting their backs and congratulating them. The fliers’ faces were flushed with the mix of emotion and adrenaline.
Raz, Spector, and Nachumi all carefully checked their planes, examining the wings and fuselage for any signs of flak damage. They told their crew chiefs to look over the fighters inch by inch to make sure there were no bullet holes. Then they joined the rest of the men to be transported to the debriefing room.
Iftach Spector stood to the side, visibly upset.
Nachumi was pretty sure Spector had missed the target. The other pilots, too, had immediately sensed that something was wrong. They began to approach their longtime commander.
Nachumi clasped him on the shoulder.
“We did enough damage to the reactor,” he said, hoping to console him.
“I want to see my video!” Spector snapped, waving the men away.
It was clear he wanted everyone to know something had gone wrong. It was equally clear he wanted to be alone. Katz was surprised. He had never seen Spector so rattled.
The pilots walked straight to Operations. Eitan and Ivry had already flown on ahead to Tel Aviv to brief the prime minister. The squadron was served coffee and sodas. The men unwound fast, an easy casualness quickly replacing the frayed edges of tension and nerves they had lived with since taking off seven hours earlier. They discussed the mission, the attack, the surprising lack of AAA until the final minutes. Nothing was said about Raz missing the navigation. Neither Raz nor Yadlin mentioned that Yadlin had cut in beneath Raz, or the fact that the first two bombs had been dropped by the number two flier. Unmentioned also was Raz’s astounding 360-degree backflip over the target, under enemy fire, and then dropping both two-thousand-pounders with 100 percent accuracy.
At last the crew chief brought in the nose-camera videos. The men quickly took their places around the TV monitor. It was what they had been waiting for. Everyone was eager to see his video. The videos showed the view of the gunsight camera, the corners of the frame delineated by brackets. In the middle of the screen was a cross indicating the location of the pipper. On the lower left side were digital readouts of the plane’s airspeed, navigation, and other vital signs. The men watched each pilot’s video intently, grading the quality of the attacks—good passes or bad passes. Shafir’s and Ramon’s cameras had documented the entire mission. As Relik’s camera recorded his plane crossing the Euphrates, Iraqi soldiers could be seen waving at him from the far bank. The pilots laughed.
Raz and Yadlin’s videos were shown first, the dome of Osirak rising clearly in the middle of the huge compound, the HUD gunsight cross flitting across the frame like a butterfly. No AAA fire could be seen. The dome of the reactor raced toward the camera, and then the bombs could be seen piercing the shell, leaving behind a gaping crack. Then came Yaffe and Katz. As their ordnance fell, the dome crumbled inward, leaving a jagged open mouth. By the time Nachumi’s video screened, the crown of the decapitated dome looked like a softboiled dipping egg. As Ramon, the final bomber, sighted the target, the videotape showed the cupola below spewing huge funnels of black smoke from deep within the reactor. Ramon’s two bombs could be seen disappearing into the smoke. But as the plane began to climb, the nose camera captured the Osirak dome below exploding outward, erupting in a volcanic conflagration of flame, utterly demolished.
At the sight of the final destruction of Osirak, the pilots broke out in spontaneous whoops. Their mission had been a success: the complete annihilation of Israel’s most deadly threat. Throughout it all, Spector stood off to the side, watching silently. He obviously felt terrible. For the videos had made clear what Spector himself had realized alone in his cockpit: the commander had missed the target. With both bombs. Everyone else had targeted with 100 percent accuracy.
Outside, Spector was disgusted, but he was determined not to show weakness. He was a leader. He did not have the luxury of being vulnerable. He also made up his mind that he was not going to use the flu as an excuse.
“I missed,” he said, with forced equanimity. “Something happened. I’m not sure what. . . .” He shrugged. “But there is no excuse. Thank goodness you were there to back me up.”