The machines that mattered now were the giant, low-profile Hippos. It is astonishingly difficult to spot one of these troop-carrying aircraft on the ground. The fact that the Lockheed C-130 Hercules is regarded affectionately as the “hippopotamus” by IAF pilots is curious: the hardest animal to see on the shores of Lake Victoria is the lumbering hippo heaving itself onto the shore of Entebbe.
But Thunderbolt was full of such coincidences and surprises. Take the matter of President Amin’s Mercedes. Years earlier, his future foreign minister (who had been offered a choice of ambassadorships), during a 24-hour marathon drinking session kept asking himself where he would like to be posted. Like Amin, he was fascinated by cars and planes. He judged foreign posts solely by the type of limousine he could buy dutyfree . . . London and a Rolls-Royce? Paris and the new Citroen? Washington and a Lincoln? Or Bonn and a Mercedes?
He chose Bonn. He recommended that President Amin get a Mercedes. By then, foreign governments were competing unashamedly for the favors of the black dictators who leaped into power behind the receding colonial tide. Amin had a choice of half-a-dozen bribes and chose a Mercedes. (Israel had nothing to offer in this line until someone thought of providing another kind of toy: the lAF’s Fouga-Magista jet trainer.)
On Saturday, July 3, Amin’s black Mercedes, or one exactly like it, stood behind the closed door of a large hangar. All Israel had been scoured during the final days of Flight 139’s hijacking by specialists in deception operations. They found a Mercedes fitting the description supplied by the Mossad intelligence teams, but it was white. Getting it sprayed black presented a security problem. Who wants an expensive limousine converted overnight on a whim? Nobody in Israel has that kind of money. So the borrowers of the Mercedes painted it themselves.
A burly paratrooper was made up to resemble President Amin by “Reu’ma,” a girl in the air force reserve who normally worked for a Tel Aviv television company. Now she worked from photographs of Big Daddy in the back of the cavernous hangar concealing the Mercedes. How and if the fake president and his Mercedes would be used had to be left to fate. What began as a joke had found its way into the final scheme.
At another base, a makeup artist worked on the men commanded by Lieutenant Colonel Yehonatan “Yonni” Netanyahu, whose commandos were to lead the attack. They were expert marksmen, trained as snipers and drilled continuously in the terrible art of killing guerrillas. Yonni was the U.S.-born leader of this grim unit, the son of a distinguished Jewish historian and himself a graduate student of philosophy from Harvard University. The men called him by an old Hebrew phrase that translates as “The man of sword and Bible.” He had a passion for the land of Israel. On operations into terrorist ground, he led. On exercises, he made the landscape come alive.
“Yonni knew each corner of Israel in biblical terms,” said a comrade. “Wherever we were, he would relate that place to some event in Jewish history.”
Yonni discussed Uganda with his unit. Half-a-dozen were made up meticulously as Ugandan soldiers. They were nervous boys of 20 or thereabouts, “nervous in the sense that we had no concept of Africa,” said one later. “We were accustomed to night raids, to fighting in unfamiliar conditions. But this was something else. We were trained to be dropped anywhere in the Middle East, to attack an oil well or take over an airfield from Arab control. None of us had considered ‘Darkest Africa.’”
Another in Yonni’s unit (“Rafael” is his nom de guerre) explained: “Nerves were strung taut. Yet those of us who could not take part in the operation fell back with tears in our eyes—tears of frustration. The nervous tension prepares you. To be left out is tragic.”
The last-minute separation of those who would board the Thunderbolt planes and those who must wait had been anticipated. It reflected the precise adjustments to the operation that continued until the last moment, each adjustment a reaction to some new piece of intelligence.
Some intelligence was beamed back from the skies over Uganda where IAF planes relieved each other in patrols that watched the weather, the movement of Ugandan aircraft, and President Amin. Amin was due to fly back to Entebbe from Mauritius. The final changes in Thunderbolt would depend on when he returned.
Other intelligence continued to stream in from abroad. In Paris, the task force’s special adviser on counterterror, Major General Rehavam Zeevi, had been busy since his arrival on Tuesday with negotiations and debriefings. He telephoned Prime Minister Rabin at 2:30 p.m., one hour before Thunderbolt began, to report another hitch in the bargaining. “There’s some breakdown,” he said, referring to the awkward channel to the terrorist leaders in Entebbe.
“Keep trying,” replied Rabin.
Zeevi returned to the frustrating task, still believing that a deal was being made with the terrorists. Unconsciously he had disclosed to the task force that the terrorists were unable to respond to a revised plan for an exchange of prisoners. They could not respond because Amin had not returned. Thus, an hour before action, one more small piece was fitted into the mosaic.
In Nairobi, the El Al manager was advised to prepare to refuel “some extra charter flights—maybe two planes or so.” He knew now why he had been instructed to draw out cash from his emergency reserve. It would be cash on the barrelhead. Where the charters were going he was not encouraged to guess.
Refueling was still a big question mark. Prime Minister Rabin had focused on this weak link from the start. The Hercules transports and the Boeing 707s would be operating at extreme range. The 707s could refuel at Nairobi without attracting comment. The Hercules, plainly geared for a military action, could not land on the way to Entebbe, nor could they be refueled in the air without attracting the attention of hostile radar. One Hercules was being loaded now with pallets of fuel to be pumped into the other three Hercules at Entebbe. That meant taking along special fuel pumps. It also meant a tremendous risk for the pilot and crew.
In the early hours of Saturday, still struggling with the political and diplomatic implications of Thunderbolt, and still unable to give the final approval, the prime minister again questioned General Gur, IAF commander Benny Peled, and his intelligence advisers. Was there an alternative to hauling the spare fuel such a distance?
By then the news from Nairobi was encouraging enough for Rabin’s advisers to suggest that Thunderbolt rely on refueling in Kenya. As a backup, a fifth Hercules with the fuel on board would fly ahead and wait at a Kenyan air force base near Mombasa. The standby air tanker, though, must be used only in a grave emergency. If the rescue mission was forced to land at an African military base there would be violent repercussions, and Kenya would be charged with aiding and abetting a military assault on Uganda. Nairobi, on the other hand, was a commercial airline base and since the raiders would be flying under civil registration, it would be difficult for anyone to raise serious objections.
The time limits were also set now, dictated by the imminence of some violent action against the hostages and the lack of busy commercial air traffic on the air lanes from the Mideast through Nairobi to South Africa. It was known, for example, that Entebbe Airport would not be disturbed by commercial air traffic from midday Saturday until a British Airways VC-10 refueled there at the scheduled time of 2:30 a.m. on Sunday on its way from London to Mauritius. This, incidentally, set the outside limit for the departure of the Thunderbolt planes. They should be well away from the scene before the British airliner entered the circuit.
There was never any question of which aircraft would be used in the mission. The Hercules in the C-130E and C-130H configurations had been in IAF service since 1971. They had undergone considerable Israeli modification since the first batch of 16 had arrived. On a long-range penetration mission of this kind, one machine acting as pathfinder would be crammed with electronic gear that virtually acted as long-range eyes and ears. The planes, though heavy and clumsy in appearance, had the handling qualities of fighters. Their pilots were trained to put them through a range of aerobatics, to fly them on two engines, an
d to land with three engines dead.
The Hercules pilot nonetheless misses the glamour that surrounds IAF jet fighter pilots. One whose nom de guerre for the rescue mission was “Ariel” described later how he felt:
A little earlier I was sitting on a yacht. In the peaceful atmosphere of a summer evening, I never imagined that within hours I would be called to fly 20 tons of fuel to Kenya—to fly a bomb ready to explode through a moment of carelessness or blow up if hit by a chance Ugandan shell.
On the yacht there was a festive meal with lots of booze. Some of Tel Aviv’s beauties adorned the deck. They had little interest in the fate of the hostages, contenting themselves with sighs of “Poor things” and hurried to change the subject.
The men argued about the hijacking. Most criticized the government for inaction. Suddenly, everyone turned to me and asked: “You people in the air force—can’t you do anything? Can’t you bomb Entebbe?”
I felt at a disadvantage in this intoxicating atmosphere. I replied: “What do you want of me? I’m just a transport pilot. If they tell me to fly to Entebbe—I fly to Entebbe.”
Ever since the days of the Dakotas and Stratocruisers, we transport pilots are like stepsons in the air force. We don’t reap the glory of fighter pilots who engage Migs in combat and attack missile batteries. We are the truck drivers.
In our squadron the atmosphere is somewhat civilian. The men are veterans, with many hours of flying time on other planes. Work is routine and predictable. Members of the crew come aboard in casual clothes, carrying large bags like messengers.
In the Hippopotamus, the big Hercules, the captain sits with a second pilot. Behind our chairs is the flight engineer. At the back of the cockpit sits the fourth member of the crew—the navigator. The navigational system of this plane, unlike that in the air force’s other transport planes, is built with great sophistication. The Hercules can fly in conditions of no visibility and any weather—from the north pole to the equator. We have yet to go to the north pole.
On the large instrument panels which stretch in front to both sides and up to the ceiling, are the most sophisticated navigational aids, including very precise radar. These aids are a revolution in the navigation systems and instruments of military air transport.
The high-tailed Hippo has four turbojet engines. At the height of their power they sound muffled—an important advantage in the Entebbe raid. The machine takes off very rapidly from short runways. It is fitted with rockets for a quick getaway.
The atmosphere among us Hercules pilots is pioneering. The large number of crew members creates a cheerful and friendly spirit. There is special significance in controlling a four-engined plane. You are in charge of a giant.
The Hercules transports stood in line at the far end of a long runway at another base. Canvas-covered trucks and command cars edged up to their gaping cargo ramps. Somewhere on nearby runways an occasional interceptor landed or took off—a Phantom or maybe a Skyhawk. Most of the base personnel had gone to stretch out in their rooms. A few were still in the mess. Young pilots chatted in the bar.
Few noticed young soldiers jump out of helicopters and move to offload equipment and stow it in the depths of the aircraft: boxes of grenades, bazooka rockets, radiophones, and the trappings of war.
Two jeeps, with 106-millimeter recoilless guns installed, were swallowed up in the belly of a Hercules. Heavy machine guns joined the arsenal. A half-track crawled into another of the planes. Everything passed quickly. No raised voices. Expressionless faces. There was the special smell of the unknown before battle.
Field security officers made sure that no stranger came near. The team of senior officers was very small; the commander of the base and his operations officer, Brigadier General Dan Shomron, Lieutenant Colonel Yehonatan “Yonni” Netanyahu.
If Thunderbolt had been kept carefully secret at the political level, it was nothing compared with the wall of silence erected within the army and air force. The whispers travel in Israel as swiftly as gossip on the Arab grapevine or, as Shomron said, “the beat of the African tom-tom.” Security officers burned every piece of paper to do with the mission once it had served its purpose.
Last orders were given at an assembly base where all eyes focused on a gigantic sketch of Entebbe Airport. Yonni analyzed for his men each detail of their sectors, paying particular attention to the old terminal building where the hostages were being held.
The problem, Yonni explained, was “to reach the hostages at high speed, and eliminate the hijackers. It’s a matter of seconds between success and a massacre.”
A young officer commented: “It reminds me of the Sabena rescue at Lod. There was a problem about sorting out hijackers from passengers. Most passengers were saved because the whole thing took seconds.”
“That’s why you have identikits on the terrorists,” Yonni replied. “You’ve had time to memorize. Still, keep going over details during the flight. The bastards mustn’t be allowed to fire a single shot. A single grenade could mean disaster.”
The atmosphere was relaxed. Yonni’s soldiers, some of whom looked like children, spoke of Entebbe as if it were Petach Tikvah just outside Tel Aviv—as if it were “Anatevka,” Shalom Aleichem’s little township in Fiddler on the Roof. Briefings had made it seem so familiar. They seemed to forget this was a journey into the heart of Africa. The only Africa they knew was the front line across the Suez Canal in the Yom Kippur War. “Well,” shrugged a paratrooper, “the distance is the pilots’ problem.”
They talked of the hostages. There would be murderous crossfire. How to warn the hostages to fall flat on the floor? By loudspeaker? Or simply burst in and shout?
Yonni chose his best marksmen. The first shots at the terrorists must be fatal. Prisoners? “It would be nice to capture the leader, Jaber,” said Yonni. “But they’re killers. There won’t be second chances.”
They planned how to get the passengers to the planes. How many stretchers? What about old people and children? Would they have to be carried?
The sessions at the general staff, with the participation of the air force commander, General Benny Peled, and the head of operations branch, Major General Yekutiel Adam, were almost scientific: precise planning of the flight plan to Entebbe and back, a detailed timetable of anticipated maximum stay at Entebbe, examination of alternatives in case of complications or unexpected hitches somewhere in Africa, far from home. Mission Commander Dan Shomron, who had worked almost 24 hours every day of the week, was coordinating the different formations—Yonni’s unit to see to the hostages, Force 629 to neutralize the Ugandans, a Special Air Service detachment to destroy Idi Amin’s Russian jets, men to protect the planes, the communications experts, medicos, and a team of intelligence technologists for a small independent mission. One thing was abundantly clear: if anything happened to the planes, Thunderbolt’s force might be trapped in Entebbe in a worse position than the hostages. For this reason there would be special air support held in reserve.
Peres had called the operation “the farthest in range, the shortest in time, and the boldest in its imagination.” Chief of Staff Mordechai Gur called it a “calculated risk” in the war on terrorism. To which Peres made a final amendment: “A relative risk—we are dealing with relative dangers and we have no ideal solutions.”
The planners knew enough about what to expect to stress “neutralizing” the Ugandans rather than harming them—if they did not open fire first. After all, the officers and men of the Ugandan army had once been students of Israel’s military mission. As Peres put it, “The Ugandan nation is not responsible for the actions of Idi Amin—who isn’t really responsible for them himself.”
On his way from the top-level briefing, Dan Shomron glanced at a cartoon from an English paper pinned on a bulletin board. It showed Idi Amin asking Adolf Hitler: “Perhaps you could advise me on how to build a command bunker like the one you had in Berlin?”
During the last hours when military and task force approval had been obtained an
d the final decision depended upon the full session of the cabinet, 280 paratroops gathered in a hangar beside a row of halftracks and jeeps armed with recoilless guns. Special Service commander Major General Shomron waited until the huge hangar doors had been wheeled shut, then jumped onto the step of an armed command jeep.
“What you are required to do is important for the state of Israel,” he said, voice hoarse from the hours and days of argument. “I know you will each do your duty. Good luck. Thank you.”
The pilots regarded their passengers with some dismay. Some men stripped to the waist as soon as they walked into the bellies of the Hercules. Others wore crumpled coveralls. They were joined by civilians dressed untidily as if for a day digging in their gardens.
“I never saw such a mob,” commented a pilot later. “They looked ruffians, the lot of them. After we were airborne, they slumped under half-tracks or wriggled into spaces between containers and jeeps and went to sleep!”
This pilot had so many flying hours in his military logbook that it would have been reasonable to suppose that he was ready for any surprise. He knew some of the civilians were doctors. He guessed others were technical experts on secret secondary missions. He said: “When I looked at the commandos’ faces I was reassured. But anyone who saw them walking onto the base would have dismissed them as men recruited from street urchins and schoolboy gangs. That, of course, was how they wanted to look.”
The air conditioning inside his Hercules failed to fight off the considerable heat. Soldiers sat packed like sardines around the equipment. Some perched on a jeep, others squeezed in at the side of a half-track. The crew climbed the short ladder to their control cabin. There were pitying glances for the handful of men in Ugandan uniform squashed inside the black Mercedes, their blackened faces streaked with perspiration.
The government had convened in full session at 2:00 p.m. Yitzhak Rabin, looking anxious, explained, possibly confessed, that if the operation did not succeed—and if there would be demonstrations—he as prime minister would bear responsibility. With a heavy heart he announced that he approved the plan. Throughout, Rabin behaved as on the eve of the Six Day War: a long waiting period of calculation up to the last moment of decision. But in 1967 Rabin was chief of staff and wanted government approval. Now he was himself the authority of last resort. Without his agreement the planes would not leave for their destination.
90 Minutes at Entebbe Page 11
