90 Minutes at Entebbe
Page 1
“If Israel should ever fail to protect her own, she would cease to have meaning. We have been forced into aggressive defense and the stakes keep getting higher.
“In the end, we may have to choose between action that might pull down the Temple of Humanity itself rather than surrender even a single member of the family to the executioners.
“Survival in other circumstances is not survival at all. And all of us, whatever our race, won’t be worth a damn if we buy our lives at the cost of our conscience.”
Yerucham Amitai, Former Deputy Chief, Israeli Air Force.
From a conversation with William Stevenson while flying over the Temple of Solomon, March 1970
To the memory of Yerucham Amitai
Copyright © 1976 by William Stevenson
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.
Cover design by Rain Saukas
Print ISBN: 978-1-62914-442-9
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-62914-849-6
Printed in the United States of America
CONTENTS
Introduction
1. Where Is Flight 139?
2. An African Dictator Takes Over
3. Terrorism and Mad Regimes
4. The Options
5. “Where the Hell Is Uganda?”
6. The Terrorists’ Ultimatum
7. Track A: Surrender?
8. Shift to Track B: Attack
9. Dr. Hadad: Planner of Terror
10. Intelligence Filters In
11. Amin: The PLO Puppet
12. The General Staff Examines Track B
13. The Invisibles
14. The Night of the Dry Run
15. The Hippos Assemble
16. Thunderbolt: GO!
17. Into Africa
18. “Yonni’s Been Hit!”
19. Dora Bloch Vanishes
20. “Refuel at Nairobi!”
21. Idi Gets the News from Tel Aviv
22. “I Am Distressed for Thee, My Brother Jonathan”
A Personal Note
United Nations Security Council Debate
Transcript of Three Telephone Conversations Between Colonel Baruch Bar-Lev and President Idi Amin
INTRODUCTION
During the first hour of Sunday, July 4, 1976, a raiding party escaped from the heart of Africa with more than a hundred hostages held by a black dictator. Operation Thunderbolt struck across 2500 miles with airborne commandos in a spectacular 90-minute battle against international terrorism.
In Washington, while Americans began to celebrate the 200th anniversary of declaring independence from British rule, the news came first through the powerful electronic ears of the National Security Agency, which picked up terse radiophone conversations between Israeli troops fighting in Uganda, one of Britain’s last colonies to gain independence.
The messages in Hebrew passed between armed jeeps, infantry carriers, four giant Hercules transport planes, two Boeing 707s, and a black Mercedes that appeared to, but did not, belong to President Idi Amin Dada, sometimes known with graveyard humor as Big Daddy. One of the 707s contained the chief of the Israeli air force and an entire battlefield command center, circling five miles high.
Not all of this was immediately evident in Washington. Uganda must have seemed as remote as the moon to the NSA translators; and indeed the African state is better known for its famous Mountains of the Moon than it is for having any significance in world politics. But the reports reaching Secretary of State Henry Kissinger made sense. He had been warned just minutes earlier that an Israeli long-range penetration group of some five hundred soldiers and airmen had made its way down the Red Sea, around Russian-built radar watchdogs, between hostile Arab states, and across part of Africa to swoop along the Rift Valley and into Entebbe.
Israel waited until the last minute to tell the United States about this unprecedented military operation. A small group of men in Jerusalem shouldered the full burden of responsibility. For a whole week they had wrestled with a crisis that should have drawn the support of other governments but did not—a crisis for which there were no ready-made answers, no previous experiences on which to draw, and no perfect solutions.
Israel’s ambassadors informed Henry Kissinger and other foreign ministers in order to prevent an alarmed military reaction. They made their disclosures in response to a single coded message transmitted from Jerusalem to the capitals of the world, and delayed so that no foreign government would have time to protest or interfere.
The crisis that Israel faced alone was one that revived bitter memories of other tragedies when Jews had been abandoned to their fate. In reconstructing events leading to those 90 minutes at Entebbe, I was not told by the Israelis that they were haunted by memories of the Holocaust, pogroms, and inquisitions. Not one of the soldiers, airmen, politicians, and statesmen drew an analogy. The facts spoke for themselves. When I sat with Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin in his Jerusalem office, for example, there was no trace of self-pity in his account of the preceding days of agonizing soul-searching. There was no reproach. When Defense Minister Shimon Peres recalled the desperate moves to win international help, he made no judgments. When the chief of staff, General Mordechai Gur, suddenly buried his head in his arms in a brief betrayal of fatigue, it was merely the gesture of a man expressing relief that Jews can still count on one unfailing protector—the state of Israel.
And this was what Thunderbolt was all about. That Israel does have the most powerful of reasons for its existence. Without Israel the hostages at Entebbe would have died or become pawns in a new kind of guerrilla warfare aimed at destroying the decencies. And the hostages were Jews. And officially, no other government wished to save them by military action.
Thunderbolt marks a turn of the tide, however, in the free world’s response to the new techniques of terror. For years we have become conditioned to blackmail and anarchy, so that the hijacking of an Air France airliner on its way from Athens to Paris seemed almost routine. Flight 139 originated in Tel Aviv on the morning of Sunday, June 27. At the time, the men who would spend the rest of the following week in a sleepless battle of wits were going about their business in the most undistinguished way. Some were soldiers with civilian jobs; pilots who were also university students; politicians with a taste for philosophy or archaeology. I know that one man who shot dead an archterrorist at Entebbe was on this Sunday discussing sculpture with an old schoolmate in the artists’ colony of Safed.
Flight 139 disappeared for a while from the map and from the minds of most newspaper readers except those with relatives aboard—and except for Israelis, who sensed yet another challenge to their right to exist. Yet Flight 139 was important to those of us who are not Jews but share the same values.
There were a lot of strange aspects to the saga of Flight 139. The terrorists
who hijacked it were executing a carefully conceived plan. They were endorsed by the president of the Republic of Uganda—the first time a modern nation and its leader became the protector and spokesman for pirates and political blackmailers. They were nourished by an international terrorist organization whose headquarters were in the neighboring territory of the Soviet Union’s strategic ally in Africa, Somalia. They declared war, for all intents and purposes, on Kenya, which has resolutely resisted the influence peddlers from the Soviet bloc and China.
The terrorists were led by a German man and woman whose behavior reminded at least one hostage, himself bearing tattooed numbers from a concentration camp, of Nazis. The name of “The Jackal,” an assassin with worldwide connections, arose time and again. The Jackal is not a fictional villain: he is a technician of death employed by revolutionaries of sophisticated backgrounds. Their negotiations with the state of Israel, for example, were conducted with the arrogance of men and women sure of powerful backers. One of their sponsors was Libya, where Flight 139 first landed to refuel: Libya, which has spent part of its enormous oil revenues on guerrilla groups—$50 million to revolutionaries in Lebanon; $100 million to Black September, the terrorist wing of Al Fatah; and millions more to such agents of arson and assassination as the Angels of Death in Eritrea. The names mean nothing to most of us until too late. The names meant little or nothing to the passengers on Flight 139 whose lives were to be bartered for jailed terrorists, an exchange so common now that we have come to accept it as normal.
In Israel the barter of the innocent for the criminal is still not regarded as moral. The passengers on Flight 139 had to be treated as if they were “soldiers in the front line,” I was told by the antiterrorist experts whose hearts bled even as they said it. They were weighing a few lives against the fate of a nation and of a people. Nobody who knows Israel can have any illusions about the pain that is felt at the loss of even a single life in all the years of recurrent warfare. But Israel understands, in a way that the rest of us do not, the dimensions and the awesome future of international terrorism.
Thus the fight to recapture Flight 139’s passengers was a battle against the cunning and ruthless ingenuity of those who stand behind such scientific killers as The Jackal. They have learned to bully the democracies. Their defeat at Entebbe, though resounding, is only an interlude. Thunderbolt signified that some men and women have the guts to strike back, and it evoked a response from ordinary people that suggests the public is far ahead of governments in wishing to arm against this new danger. An encouraging feature of the triumph at Entebbe is that it resulted from cooperation between individuals in many other parts of Africa and the Western world.
And perhaps this is what matters. Though statesmen shrank from action and governments turned away, Israel was assisted in many unconventional ways. “The courage of those who fought at Entebbe,” a senior Israeli official told me, “was more than matched by the bravery and dedication of our intelligence experts and their friends in many places.”
William Stevenson
New York City
July 1976
1
WHERE IS FLIGHT 139?
The woman who walked into the transit lounge at Athens Airport at 6:17 a.m. on Sunday, June 27, 1976, wore a dark denim skirt, light blue blouse, and flat-heeled shoes. Her eyes were slightly bloodshot and her face was marked by acne scars. She looked in her late twenties and stood silent beside a quietly dressed young man who had flown this far with her aboard Singapore Airlines Flight 763 from Bahrain. The pair were ticketed as Mrs. Ortega and Mr. Garcia.
Two young men with Arab passports disembarked from the same Bahrain flight but kept their distance. They too were ticketed to join Air France Flight 139 from Tel Aviv to Paris, due to stop over in Athens at around midday. Their names were given as Fahim al-Satti and Hosni Albou Waiki.
Security was lax at Athens, where a lightning strike of ground staff was sufficiently distracting to persuade airport police not to bother with even rudimentary checks. The timing of the strike was to take on significance later. So was the observation of the one guard who seems to have been awake at Athens Airport that fateful morning. His detailed descriptions of the odd couples would suggest later that the woman was Gabriele Kroche-Tiedemann, a 24-year-old terrorist who helped kidnap oil ministers at the meeting of the Organization of Petroleum Exporting Countries in Vienna in December 1975 and a girlfriend of another German killed more recently when his suitcase bomb exploded in Tel Aviv Airport. Gabriele had lived with Carlos, The Jackal, the world’s best-known and most wanted terrorist, and her German companion on this day was a member of the Baader-Meinhof urban guerrillas.
One of the Arabs would be identified as a founder and operational planner of the terrorist Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine (PFLP).
The four travelers joined Flight 139 without passing through the metal-detection hoops. Nor was their baggage examined. Inside the Air France airbus they split up. One of the Arabs sat near Moshe Peretz, a 26-year-old medical student from Israel. Peretz, a meticulous young man, had started to scribble a kind of diary on the back of his ticket. As time progressed and scribbling became a dangerous occupation, his notes changed in character. They began as a record which Peretz thought might be fun someday to stick into an album. They finished as frantic bits of Hebrew on airsickness bags, folders, and napkins—entries that trailed into silence exactly one week and three hours later, right back where they started in Tel Aviv.
Sunday, June 27, Athens. 1100 hours.
1210—A few moments after taking off I suddenly hear a terrible scream. My first thought is someone’s fainted. I see two persons rush forward. One is a longhaired youth wearing a red shirt, gray trousers, and a beige pullover. The other has a thick mustache, wears long trousers and yellow shirt. They are running toward the first-class compartment.
1212—Frightened and hysterical stewardesses come out of the first-class compartment. With trembling arms, they attempt to calm down the passengers, who begin to show signs of agitation. A minute later, we hear the excited voice of a woman over the plane’s internal communications system. Speaking English with a foreign accent she informs us that the plane is under the control of the “Che Guevara Group” and the “Gaza Unit” of the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine. When I hear “Che Guevara,” that frightens me, because I fear they will not hesitate to blow up the plane in the air. The hysterical voice over the loudspeaker announces that all passengers are to raise their hands above their heads and not move. At the entrance to the first-class compartment there stand two terrorists holding drawn guns and hand grenades without safety pins. They begin a close body search of the passengers. They call the passengers, one after another, and search in all the intimate parts of their bodies. Later their search becomes more superficial. They announce that anyone with a weapon in his possession is to hand it over immediately. A few passengers hand them knives and forks. I too am called, and searched in a superficial manner. The searches last till nearly 1500 hours.
1500—I have no idea where we are flying. Suddenly, out of the windows, we see a coast, arid soil, and one poor landing strip. We guess we approach Benghazi. The plane circles the field ten times before landing. Then the commander of the terrorists—the one in the red shirt—says that we have indeed landed at Benghazi. He says the new “captain” of the plane is, from now on, Bazin el Nubazi, the leader of “Gaza.” The plane, he says, will not respond to any message which does not address it as “Haifa.” We wait two hours. While we wait, they put a round can, with a fuse sticking out of it, near the left-hand exit of the plane, and a square can on the right. They hold the cans in one hand, and it seems that each one weighs about 200 grams. The one in the yellow shirt says the doors have been booby-trapped with explosives to prevent them being opened. (To tell the truth, the cans do not appear very awe-inspiring.)
1700—One of the women passengers, who reports feeling unwell, is allowed off the plane.
1715—T
he terrorists have begun collecting passports. They tie them up in a nylon bag. I give them my passport, my army card, my driving license—in fact, all the documents in my possession. They threaten that anyone who does not hand over all his documents faces severe punishment. They speak in English, and one of the stewardesses translates into French. To tell the truth, the atmosphere in the plane is calm.
1800—One of the women passengers faints, and a doctor among the passengers gives her first aid. We are still seated here, looking out of the windows. An arid landscape, four bored soldiers sitting on the runway, a few fire trucks standing nearby.
1915—A cold supper—but not bad. The stewards serve cans of juice, with Arab inscriptions. In the meantime I have seen a blond terrorist and the German woman. She’s the sort who gets things together fast. Anyone who wants to go to the toilet lifts a fingers, she shouts an order to go; in one case, when two passengers get up at the same time to go to the toilet, she screams like a veritable animal.
1925—The “captain” (the German) announces that he regrets the upset and discomfort being caused to the passengers, and promises that we will take off as soon as possible.
2135—At long last, in the air. Unbelievable. After 6½ hours on the ground. Our treatment is fairly good. But where are we flying? To Damascus? Baghdad? Beirut? Tel Aviv? or Paris? The passengers conduct a kind of lottery about the destination of our flight. We speak freely to one another, with the unknown factors being our destination and the hijackers’ demands.
2300—I awake from a nap. It’s very cold. I cover myself with Israeli newspapers.
Flight 139 fell silent soon after leaving Athens. The loss of radio contact stirred little action among the Greek flight controllers. But in Israel the airliner’s abrupt silence began a week of tempestuous operations: the week that ran from Sunday, June 27, 1976, to Sunday, July 4; a week now preserved in Israeli intelligence files labeled Thunderbolt and surrounded by unprecedented secrecy.