90 Minutes at Entebbe
Page 12
The discussion went on. The prime minister said he did not want to limit the time each minister could speak, so the decision wouldn’t be rushed through under the pressure of time—a fact that added to the fateful atmosphere of the discussion, as each of the ministers wanted to speak on this “historic occasion,” thereby, of course, delaying the time of the final decision.
But the democratic delay served a purpose too, reducing the time to an absolute minimum during which Thunderbolt might be betrayed by the slip of a tongue.
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THUNDERBOLT: GO!
Thunderbolt got off the ground literally 15 minutes before final cabinet approval. The largest airborne commando raid ever to strike at long distance was on its way, the commanders under orders to turn back if the crisis task force failed to convince all government ministers that the operation must proceed. The word “Zanék!” meaning “Jump!” or, in the jargon of another war, “Scramble!” was flashed to all pilots at 3:30 p.m. It was the Jewish Sabbath, Saturday, July 3, and two of the ministers who represented strictly religious sections of Israel had walked all the way to the cabinet session, obeying scruples against the use of transport. Since the meeting was in Tel Aviv and one of the ministers lived in Jerusalem, Transport Minister Yaakobi thoughtfully warned his colleague the previous day to spend the night away from home. The second, Zevoloun Hammer, the minister of welfare, walked for 90 minutes from his own quarters in a Tel Aviv suburb, politely rejecting a chauffeur-driven car sent to pick him up by Prime Minister Rabin.
“We’ll run out of gas while those idiots continue arguing,” complained a pilot, heading toward the Red Sea with commandos getting blackface “facials” from a makeup expert snatched that afternoon from a Tel Aviv theater.
“They talk, we sweat, and Big Daddy eats his first hostage,” muttered a paratrooper, huge and uncomfortable in the white starched coveralls of an East African Airlines mechanic.
“They reckon on 30 dead and 50 wounded,” said one of 23 doctors and 10 medical specialists in the Boeing 707 converted into a flying hospital. “They’ve figured the odds. Why the hell can’t they just tell us . . . GO!”
“If the government takes much longer to make up its mind,” said an airborne radar operator, “the Russians will scramble their Migs . . . and they won’t be Migs flown by Ugandans.”
The natural edginess of men and women in this remarkable aerial armada would echo through the aftermath. Fighting men, trained for action, were impatient with the slow processes of democracy in an artificial peace. Huge aircraft and fighter escorts were moving toward their target with no firm order to attack while “old men” were “mumbling in their beards.”
In the final political discussions on Saturday, the chief of staff opened: “This time I’m presenting a plan for execution.” He quoted Dan Shomron, the commander of the operation: “From my point of view, if I succeed in landing the first plane safely, the operation will succeed.”
The atmosphere was tense. Many of those who spoke confidently were still feeling uncertain. The hands of the clock would not stand still. The flight to Entebbe takes seven hours. If the plan were to be approved it must be done within minutes.
In theory it was possible to recall the planes at any time before landing at Entebbe. This was taken into account in case some sudden development endangered the operation. Idi Amin was scheduled to cut short his visit to the African summit conference in Mauritius that night and return to Entebbe. Suppose the men of the commando and Idi Amin landed at the same moment, face to face, at the airport?
Intelligence stressed that no more than 10 terrorists were guarding the hostages, with 80 to 100 Ugandan soldiers nearby. There was considerable anxiety over a revival of the fear that the aircraft and the building where the hostages were held were mined for demolition.
Ahead of the Thunderbolt armada flew a Boeing 707 wearing the colors of El Al and a civil registration number, and carrying the IAF commander, Benny Peled, a veteran pilot whose logbook included every warplane in Israel’s history, and the deputy chief of the general staff, Yekutiel Adam. They followed the international air lane down the Red Sea, turning south to cross Ethiopia and letting down just west of Lake Naivasha for the landing at Nairobi Airport.
So far so good. Nobody had challenged them. There was no reason why anyone should. The 707 was a commercial airliner in its present garb. If anyone looked inside, they would see businessmen in civilian suits and a rather unusual quantity of cargo where half the seats should have been. The cargo was an entire air-command center, the flying version of Benny Peled’s headquarters in Tel Aviv. The air force chief was listed on the manifest as Sidney Cohen, a South African furrier. The plane taxied to the maximum security area of Nairobi Airport where El Al planes customarily receive the protection of Kenyan police. The commander of the airport police, Lionel Davies, was one of the few Kenyan officials who knew why these unusually strict precautions were needed.
A second 707 followed the same procedure. Its IAF markings, too, were painted over and El Al’s livery substituted. Inside were some of the doctors and nurses assigned to care for the yet-to-be-wounded.
Tankers refueled both planes without attracting attention. El Al’s Nairobi manager had ensured the disinterest of Kenyan ground crews. A routine telex went back to Tel Aviv—but the recipients were far from routine. El Al’s boss, Mordecai Ben-Ari, flashed a copy to the general staff. Ben Ari had been glued to his office throughout the week and this was the climax of sleepless days and nights not unlike the years when he directed Jewish refugees in borrowed trucks and planes through the ruins of Hitler’s Europe.
With both 707s safely in Kenya, the Thunderbolt fleet of four Hercules and fighter escorts could be properly unleashed. The small armada had been ordered into the air shortly after 3:30 p.m. and was passing over Sharm al-Sheikh at the southernmost tip of Israel when the final word GO! reached the pilots. From that moment military radio fell silent. All four Hercules were camouflaged by civil registration numbers and followed the same commercial route. Pilots followed normal civil aviation procedures. They could hardly disguise the high-tailed profile of the Hippos from inquisitive eyes. But on radar, the Hippo looked like any other blob.
The troop transports kept a loose formation, remaining in comfortable radarscope view of the leader. They followed well-established skyways, but soon after leaving Israeli airspace they reduced altitude. Before turning inland they spotted naval vessels of Russian origin but apparently under Arab command. The vessels were thought to be electronic surveillance ships and the fleet of high-tailed Hippos descended to sea level.
“There were times when we flew them like combat planes,” reported an airman. “We did everything but dogfight. We made sudden sharp turns to dodge the Russian-built radar pickets on sea and land, then had to climb fast to get over the mountains.”
They ran into “tremendous storms” and rode through them because of the need to conserve fuel. “We had nowhere to land if we got engine trouble,” said a navigator. “Addis Ababa is closed after dark to all aircraft and anyway the place is dangerous—you never know what group of Ethiopians happens to be on top, and what military units are sitting trigger-happy at the airport. And finding your way there in pitch darkness between mountain peaks is an invitation to disaster.”
Aboard the pathfinder, the crew concentrated on finding a path through these alien skies. A tremendous bullet-shaped radome ahead of the flight deck shielded a spherical dish swinging through a 360-degree circle and projecting two powerful beams of energy. The first pencil beam reflected off specific targets like ships, mountains, and aircraft, returning the information to the Hercules crew. The second beam swept a wide area in constant lookout for a variety of objects. Together they provided the Hercules with an all-seeing eye that kept track of land, vessels, thunderstorms, and rainfall. An electronic brain interpreted the signals and defined obstacles that might be confused, distinguishing between a mountain, for example, and a thunderhead.
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p; An amber scope glowed in the darkness above the main instrument panel. A pencil-thin beam of light swept around the scope leaving, here and there, blobs that trailed tails of luminescence like small comets. The two pilots, navigator, and engineer were trained to decipher the meaning of these blobs at a glance, “seeing” the terrain below and the path ahead.
High above the troop transports flew the shepherds: IAF Phantoms, keeping well away, their radar operators following the flock on compact screens. In each Phantom were devices to jam hostile radar and misdirect radar-directed missiles should an enemy attempt to intercept Thunderbolt.
By dusk the odd little airfleet was turning over Nairobi. For the troop transports there could be no question of landing on the way into Uganda. At the extreme of their flying range, they were entering the dangerous approach to Entebbe. No longer protected by commercial flight paths, they descended in the dark toward a sheet of water 3000 feet above sea level, the vast unseen source of the White Nile, mighty Lake Victoria.
Uri Dan describes the scene:
A LEGEND IS BORN
Israeli paratroops run off Hercules rescue transport
Left: Ugandan President Idi Amin with Yasir Arafat, head of Al Fatah and PLO.
Left and middle: Fayez Abdul-Rahim Jaber and Jayel Naji al-Arjam, hijackers killed at Entebbe. Right: claimed to be Dr. Wadi Hadad, Chief of Palestinian terrorists.
Hijacked Air France airbus.
Idi Amin, in hat, talks with hostages released by the hijackers at Entebbe Airport on July 1, 1976.
WIDE WORLD
Israeli commandos rehearse running from a Hercules transport that has swung around to provide covering dust storm.
BAMAHANE
Hercules, with long-range fuel tanks, loading equipment.
BAMAHANE
Seated left to right: Anonymous, Chief of Staff Mordechai Cur, Brig. Cen. Dan Shomron, and Anonymous.
BAMAHANE
Israeli commandos study diagrams in rehearsal for Entebbe. Faces marked out for security reasons.
BAMAHANE
Hercules C-130 transport takes off.
BAMAHANE
Prime Minister Rabin among rejoicing crowd at airport to welcome Israeli commandos and freed hostages on July 4, 1976.
MICHA BAR-AM/MAGNUM
Rescued hostages emerge from Hercules in Israel. At left is Air France pilot, Captain Michel Bacos.
Welcome home to Israel!
SHMUEL RAHAMANI
MICHA BAR-AM MAGNUM
MICHA BAR-AM MAGNUM
WIDE WORLD
MICHA BAR-AM MAGNUM
MICHA BAR-AM MAGNUM
WIDE WORLD
WIDE WORLD
Maj. Gen. Benny Peled, Chief of Air Force.
ISAAC ISMACH
Brig. Gen. Dan Shomron, paratroop leader.
WIDE WORLD
Chief of Staff, Lt. Gen. Gur gives press briefing in Tel Aviv a few days after rescue. Beside him is map of Entebbe Airport.
WIDE WORLD
Left: Lt. Col. Yonni Netanyahu, field commander of the rescue force, who was killed at Entebbe.
BAMAHANE
Right: mourners at his funeral at home in Israel.
ISRAEL SUN
United Nations Security Council debate on July 9 about Israeli rescue in Uganda. Left: Israeli Ambassador Chaim Herzog; right: Ugandan Foreign Minister Juma Oris.
WIDE WORLD
Mrs. Dora Bloch, 75-yearold Israeli left behind at Entebbe and believed to have been killed by Ugandans.
WIDE WORLD
As the Hercules flew toward Entebbe, flashes of lightning illuminated them as if to reveal their nakedness. Inside the planes, soldiers huddled in the darkness.
“David,” commander of the force, was leading. He was overjoyed. Benny Peled, the IAF chief, chose him to bring the first plane into Entebbe. Some of the lAF’s most senior pilots competed for the privilege, but the air force commander made no concessions to seniority. David was selected in accordance with the IAF routine work roster. He was considered a good pilot but his experience was not particularly rich. On the other hand, he had always fulfilled his duties well. The IAF commander saw no reason to deprive him of his due when his turn came. And so, quite fortuitously, David led the lAF’s longest combat mission.
David listened to the muffled roar of the four turbojet engines, cruising at 350 miles an hour. His crew concentrated on a navigation plan worked out to permit the heavily laden planes to reach Entebbe, land, endure the confusion of a possible battlefield, take off again, and escape.
On the last leg to Entebbe, atmospheric disturbances were severe, requiring alterations in flight plans. Each Hercules was flying independently through the night, maintaining radio silence, descending into the Rift Valley, and relying on electronic aids to feel its way over Lake Victoria. The Hippos tossed violently and David pondered the justice of arguments he used when persuading young pilots to sign on for service with the lAF’s transport unit. “When you fly a Hercules,” he would tell them, “you’ll see it has all the characteristics of a small plane. It’s very maneuverable, and it can do almost everything except dogfight. It’s well ahead of any other plane of its size.”
A South African-born doctor complained of feeling unwell as the plane pitched and tossed in the stormy weather. Everyone understood—without saying it—that he was simply very agitated. “We were told there may be many casualties among the hostages,” he said. “I have never worked under combat conditions.” The soldiers tried to relieve his anxieties with jokes: “Look, doctor—you’ve got the chance to return home to South Africa from here.” The doctor gave a sickly smile. But at Entebbe, under fire, he proved cool, swift, and devoted.
Another doctor on the medical team was Dr. Maurice Ankeleviecz, who had long experience in administering medical aid on the battlefield. When he was summoned to take part in the raid, he left his post at Shiba Hospital, Tel Hashomer, and reported for duty. The French-born Ankeleviecz, who had served for years as the doctor of the paratroopers, was far more tranquil than his South African colleague.
The operational plan, cleared with the army’s chief medical officer, divided the doctors into two teams: ten were to attach themselves to the hostages; the rest would remain with the flying operation theater. Medical supplies included diluted milk—for hostages known to be suffering from intestinal ailments.
Dan Shomron and Yonni Netanyahu went over details of the operational plan with their subordinates again. Every now and then they clambered into the cockpit to ask “How’s it going?” Yonni was even more content than Dan, now that zero hour was approaching. Before the operation was finally approved, Yonni said that he would not blame anyone if it was decided not to carry it through—even though he believed the raid was feasible. Now he was tense as a bowstring. In his view, the Arab states’ hatred for Israel, and the actions of the terrorists, were a revival of Nazism.
Yonni was a man of contrasts. Born in the United States, he led an elite unit. The Six-Day War found him fighting in the Golan Heights, where he was wounded. He was discharged from the army as 30 percent disabled, and returned to the United States and his parents.
Defense Minister Peres had a personal interest in Yonni and stood as his guarantor when he returned to Harvard and sought further surgery on his arm. Doctors at Walter Reed Hospital worked to relieve the near constant pain caused by nerve damage that kept him from opening and closing his left hand. Surgery on the arm stopped the pain, but he was never able to regain full use of the hand. Technically he was still 30 percent disabled when he returned to Israel and talked his way back into the commandos.
“What can you offer?” demanded Major General Ariel Sharon, glancing at the crippled hand.
“I can recite by heart all the poems of Nathan Al-terman,” Yonni replied, referring to one of Israel’s leading poets.
“Pass, friend,” joked Sharon.
Two months before Thunderbolt, Yonni was promoted to command an antiterrorist unit.
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INTO AFRICA
The 50-year-old chief of the Israeli air force circled Lake Victoria in the refueled 707 command aircraft. Benny Peled could both watch the raiders on radar and follow the operation on open radio mikes transmitting on a secret channel for relay to Tel Aviv. The silence below told him that Thunderbolt was going well, the Hercules flying at half-mile intervals. Thick mist covered the lake but Entebbe was clear.
In Defense Minister Peres’s office in Tel Aviv, ministers gathered as zero hour approached.
“I walked over at about 10:30 p.m.,” recalled Minister of Transport Gad Yaakobi, whose civil aviation responsibilities made him most conscious of the organization required to maneuver Thunderbolt along commercial routes and refuel camouflaged military aircraft at international airports. “After about fifteen minutes the prime minister joined us, and then other members of the task force. We sat quietly listening for the first sounds of action from receivers tuned to the raiders.