by Uzi Eilam
The Ofek Satellites
Israel is now a member of the exclusive group of developed nations that produce satellites and launch them into space. Israeli-produced optical and radar reconnaissance satellites displaying the Israeli blue and white flag circle the earth at low earth orbits (LEO) of 300–600 kilometers and provide Israel with the ability to see beyond the horizon in high resolution. Israel’s satellite reconnaissance capabilities have also expanded to include civilian satellites, developing a commercial business that generates profits for the Israeli defense industries. Communications satellites at the high earth altitude (HEO) of 36,000 kilometers provide a diverse range of satellite communications services from broadcast stations around the world. Today, we take such services for granted but when we started the picture was not so clear. To move in this direction, we had to undertake two primary technological projects: development of the satellite itself and development of its launcher. At the time both projects looked like pipe dreams. Israel possessed academic theoretical knowledge regarding satellites but no practical experience. It was the height of audacity to think that we could begin the process based strictly on our own means.
The use of reconnaissance and communication satellites increased during the 1970s around the globe, primarily for military uses but also in the civilian market. At the time, only three countries were capable of launching satellites: the US, the Soviet Union, and France. These three nations were subsequently joined by China and a number of other countries. In the mid-1970s, in accordance with its tradition as a national laboratory striving to reach the outer limits of modern technology, Rafael identified space as an important field for future research and development, and its personnel were sent on one-year sabbaticals to space centers around the world.
Within the IDF it was the Intelligence Branch that first specified that the ability to take photographs from space was a genuine operational need...irection reinforced by the imminent Israeli withdrawal from the Sinai Peninsula after the Israeli—Egyptian peace treaty of 1979. Intelligence Branch Chief Major General Yehoshua Sagi was virtually alone within the Israeli military leadership in his quest to achieve satellite capabilities, and only Deputy CGS Major General Yekutiel Adam supported the idea. Sagi’s support for satellite development enabled Lieutenant Colonel Haim Eshed, who was appointed as a department director within the bureau of the Chief Intelligence Officer in 1979, to request Rafael and Israel Aerospace Industries to undertake a preliminary assessment of the feasibility of developing a reconnaissance satellite and launching it into space. At the time the Intelligence Branch enjoyed almost complete freedom to contact the defense industries directly and to independently commission research and development work. The defense ministry carried out the contractual agreement by means of a unit within the Production and Purchasing Administration. Rafael possessed extensive knowledge, thanks to the vision of Dr. Jonathan Mass and the company’s investment in the cultivation of scientific personnel to work on space-related subjects. The scientists at Rafael reached the conclusion that an operational reconnaissance satellite could not be launched without long-term, expensive development. Rafael’s recommendation was to move forward by participating in international development projects. They were correct in their assessment of the scope of the investment and time required, but they never imagined how difficult it would be to join international work on satellites.
Israeli Aerospace Industries, in contrast, submitted a confident, well-structured, convincing plan, complete with timetables and budgets. During this early phase two components of IAI work on satellites were already beginning to take shape: development of launchers, by a factory that would come to be known as Malam, and development of satellites by the Mabat factory. These were the days of the Islamic Revolution and the toppling of the Shah in Iran, and IAI was under stress because a number of projects in which the Mabat factory had been involved were cancelled...ignificant factor that motivated IAI to seek new directions and space seemed like the most promising one.
However, we still had a long, difficult road to travel before the IDF would authorize the goal of acquiring satellite photo capabilities. CGS Rafael Eitan thought there was no need for an Israeli satellite, a position based on the familiar concern that such an ambitious project would inevitably take a huge bite out of the IDF budget. Major General David Ivry, commander of the air force at the time, also opposed the project, ostensibly due to operational considerations. His argument was that aircraft could provide all the country’s needs with aerial photos. Here too, however, opposition appears to have stemmed from concerns regarding the project’s possible impact on the air force budget, and perhaps also from concerns that it might be detrimental to the development of advanced aerial photography capabilities. Only with his appointment as director-general of the defense ministry in 1986 did Ivry change his position, becoming one of the most important supporters of Israel’s satellite program.
In mid-1981, a solution for the budgetary problems facing the Israeli space program was finally found. The R&D Unit proposed contracting IAI’s Electronics Division to take the lead in satellite development incorporating Malam’s launcher development program and the Mabat satellite and transmission programs.
By the time I returned to the defense ministry in early 1986, we already had a great deal of experience in satellite development. At MAFAT I met Colonel Haim Eshed, whom I knew from my days as director of R&D when he was a talented technical officer in the development department of the Intelligence Branch. Eshed was now in charge of the satellite program, which had already taken root and started to grow. As director of the program, Eshed was promoted to the rank of brigadier general, and I had the privilege of working with him and his team of devoted professionals in the space program during my entire tenure as director of MAFAT.
The process of developing launchers was a story in itself. Since the early 1960s, Israel’s defense industries had amassed a substantial body of missile-related knowledge. By 1961 Rafael had already launched its Shavit II missile from a site along the Mediterranean coast just south of Acre, and the event was attended by David Ben-Gurion, Golda Meir, Shimon Peres, Tzvi Tzur, and other senior officials. Shavit II was a 250-kilogram two-stage solid fuel rocket for meteorological research that reached an altitude of 80 kilometers. To the best of my knowledge there was no Shavit I. Perhaps there had been an unsuccessful initial model that failed to launch, or perhaps the name was a public relations stunt aimed at giving the false impression of a series of tests. The launch was filmed and publicized, without any precise information about the missile itself, and made waves above and beyond what might be expected for a two-stage rocket of such modest dimensions (it was only 3.76 meters in length). The first stage of Shavit II was based on the Luz missile, and its subsequent development was transferred to IAI and also served as an important phase in the development of the Gabriel sea skimming anti-ship missile.
Israel Military Industries learned how to build large rocket engines at a factory run by Michael Schor, a charismatic engineer who later served as the director-general of IMI and chaired its first board of directors.
The development of satellite launchers was as challenging and dramatic as the development of the satellites themselves. For a number of years the program within the defense ministry was headed by Dr. Anselm Yaron, a talented engineer who was educated in Europe and was a quick and seasoned politician. Launcher development suffered from budgetary shortages, which prevented us from achieving the necessary momentum. At one point Yaron began to lose hope, and told me privately that he wanted to take a one-year sabbatical in the US and, for all intents and purposes, to resign his position. I told him that there was a chance we would acquire the budget, and that it would be a shame for him to miss a once in a lifetime opportunity. Nonetheless, Dr. Yaron thought it over and informed me that he was sticking to his decision to leave the project. One day, as if out of nowhere, a round chubby man with an almost completely bald egg-shaped head and rou
nd frameless glasses rolled into my office. His name was Uzi Rubin, and at that point I had no way of knowing that he had entered my life for good. However, the special relationship that developed throughout our subsequent years of work together endures till this day.
Uzi Rubin was an IAI aeronautical engineer who was trained at the Technion by Professor Moshe Arens. At the time of our first meeting, Rubin belonged to the recently established marketing unit of IAI. There was good chemistry between us from the moment we met. It was clear I could work with this straightforward, talented man. Our introductory meeting did not provide me with an opportunity to observe Rubin’s diplomatic skills in action, and it was only later that I realized the full extent of his ability to lead large technical teams. I was glad that I chose him to lead the program.
The issue of salary, however, still remained an obstacle, as the IAI pays its workers salaries with which the state cannot compete. I promised Uzi that I would do everything in my power to have him authorized under an “A+ Research” rank, the highest rank in the government system.
In the mid-1970s the IDF instituted a research rank similar to that used by state research institutions, and decided to award it to officers of the rank of captain and higher. The IDF contacted me while I was still directing the Atomic Energy Commission and asked me to assume the chairmanship of the Research Rank Committee. I came to the meeting with branch chief Major General Moshe Nativ with a proposal to change the nature and constitution of the committee altogether. The committee, I argued, must consist of professionals from all relevant fields. It was clear that representatives of the corps and services of the IDF could not also serve as judges, and my proposal was to have representatives attend only the meetings that dealt with their candidates in order to present their recommendations to the committee and take part in discussion.
Major General Nativ adopted my proposal in full. The committee now proceeded to recruit civilians and former military personnel in a manner that ensured it could competently discuss any realm of technological development raised before it. Research rank within the IDF developed and expanded into an efficient, prestigious mechanism for encouraging officers engaged in research and development to remain in the army for the long term. The committee was independent in its considerations and decisions, and its recommendations went directly to the chief of the Adjutant General Branch for approval. During my 15 years as chairman of the committee I cannot recall even one instance in which the branch chief rejected one of our recommendations. The IDF commanders and human resource officers found it somewhat difficult to accept the existence of an independent, influential, and prestigious promotion framework. The importance of encouraging young promising officers to remain within the research and development frameworks of the military services was extremely compelling. When I returned to the defense ministry to assume direction of MAFAT, the chief of the Adjutant General Branch thought it was only natural that I continue chairing the Research Rank Committee, and I agreed to do so. The position of chair of the Research Rank Committee was held by the director of MAFAT, and this practice remains in place today.
In Rubin’s case, it was a Research Rank Committee of the Civil Service Commission that provided him with the necessary rank, clearing the last remaining obstacle and enabling him to accept the position. He started working with a contagious vigor and optimism that quickly spread to other members of the project staff. Three industries worked together on developing the satellite launchers: Israel Aerospace Industries, Israel Military Industries, and Rafael. The project administrators were responsible for keeping each industry in its place, a difficult task because each partner was extremely capable, experienced, and well established, and had its own goals and ability to maneuver within the defense establishment.
Dov Raviv, a talented aeronautical engineer who knew how to work on all stages of missile system planning, was the dominant figure within IAI. He was involved in everything, and people followed him without hesitation. With thinning hair which he combed back European style and dancing eyes that took in everything around him, Raviv was slim and energetic with a persuasiveness that radiated in all directions. He was endowed with a mesmerizing sense of confidence, which at times seemed overblown but which ultimately proved to be justified, as well as full command of the technical details of the many project proposals he submitted for authorization. Raviv was born in Romania and immigrated to Israel when he was young. He picked up French during his advanced training in missile technology with the French defense industries. When it became clear that Raviv attracted projects and work orders, IAI gave him considerable freedom of operation. A special, separate missile development factory called Malam was established when the personnel working on missiles split off from IAI’s Engineering Division. Only a few years after the beginning of the satellite launcher program, Dov Raviv had already convinced us and the Americans that he was capable of developing the anti-missile missile known as Arrow, an accomplishment that earned him the nickname “Mr. Arrow”.
With every new success Raviv’s self-confidence grew, as did his independence from the IAI administration. Uzi Rubin and I had great respect for his abilities, but we also knew that we needed to supervise his whims. Raviv’s colleagues at IAI were jealous of his string of achievements and felt inferior due to the high level of his work and his administrative independence; they waited patiently for an opportunity to bring him down. Dov Raviv did indeed eventually meet his downfall, which turned out to be unbearably painful. After a series of successful satellite launches and progress in the development of a missile defense system based on the Arrow missile he had envisioned, he was diagnosed with a brain tumor. The doctors recommended surgery as soon as possible, and Raviv took time off to have the operation in the US. Later, he told me that he had been worried about what lay in store for him and that he had not been certain that he would live through the procedure. This new sense of fatality and concern that his family might find itself without a strong financial foundation compelled Raviv to use the months of waiting before his operation to provide consulting services for a Canadian company with ties to Israel Aerospace Industries. The doctors successfully removed the benign but extremely large tumor, and, aside from a facial spasm caused by a nerve that was damaged during the procedure, Raviv was soon on the road to full recovery. However, when he returned to Israel the authorities began an investigation of the consulting services he had provided to the Canadian company and the police started working on an indictment against him for accepting a bribe. Dov Raviv was still in the process of recovering when the roof caved in. More than his medical condition, he was most disappointed and deeply saddened by the reaction of IAI. It was suddenly as if he was a total stranger with everybody keeping their distance. Without warning IAI management, in coordination with the defense ministry, suspended Raviv from all projects. In 1993, after fighting the indictment for two years, he was convicted of accepting a $175,000 bribe from a Canadian company based on the consulting contract he had signed with them. The prosecution argued that, in return for payment, Raviv recommended that the Canadian company be awarded a contract to supply heavy vehicles for the IAI. “The consultation was merely a cover,” concluded District Judge Amnon Strashnov, who sentenced Raviv to a fine and two years imprisonment. Raviv’s appeal to the Supreme Court was denied, and his prison sentence was not commuted. When all hope was lost, Raviv’s attorneys requested a pardon from the president of the state. They also made an appeal to senior officials within the defense ministry who had worked with Raviv in the past. I did not hesitate to write a letter to the president recommending that Raviv be pardoned. I sent the letter to President Ezer Weizman, feeling that an historic injustice had been committed but President Weizman was unable to pardon Raviv, who subsequently began serving his two-year sentence. I visited him twice during his fifteen months in prison, after which he was released due to the standard deduction of a third of his sentence.
Israel Military Industries (IMI), which began
operating prior to 1948 while the Jewish state was still in the process of being established, boasted major accomplishments during Israel’s War of Independence. In addition to its production of bullets, hand-grenades, mortar shells, and artillery and tank ammunition, it also developed the capability to produce explosives and propellants. From there to the development of rocket engines the path was short. Michael Schor had been responsible for establishing the Givon Division for the development and production of rocket engines of all types and sizes. Schor, a chemical engineer by training and a yekke (the common name for German Jews known for their punctilious nature) who remained in the village in which he was raised his entire life, was a natural leader. He was a good looking fellow who looked like one’s notion of an American senator, with a gray lock of hair swept attractively across his forehead. His vulture-like nose and massive jaw endowed him with a stern countenance. Behind this stern exterior was a sensitive and at times apprehensive man who tried not to show his true emotions lest they be understood as signs of weakness.
The Givon factory was assigned to develop large engines for the satellite launchers, since it was clear the production staff possessed the necessary knowledge and physical infrastructure to do so. Although production of the solid propulsion material only required heating in large vats, it was still necessary to pay careful attention to the safety guidelines. Post-production molding of the material also proved to be an art requiring experience and expertise. The Givon factory acquired the necessary experience through years of developing and producing small engines, and gradually came to be able to produce increasingly larger engines. The ultimate test involved operating a full-size engine, which required the construction of an isolated testing facility far from inhabited areas for safety reasons. One stage of a rocket launcher engine contained a few tons of propellants, and the detonation of this material during testing posed a potential danger.
