Authors: Rodger W. Claire
As the months went by, Ben-Nun grew more and more frustrated with what he considered Ivry’s foot-dragging. He argued that the Tel-Nof wing would have the CFTs by the time of the raid. Israel was already lobbying the U.S. Departments of State and Defense to amend the agreement and sell Israel the tanks. In addition, the Israeli defense industry had begun exploring the possibility of manufacturing its own external tanks. But Ivry worried about losing pilots, and the F-15 increased that risk.
Then, on February 1, 1979, events a thousand miles to the northeast literally changed Ivry’s world. A month after Jimmy Carter had toasted the shah of Iran, Mohammed Reza Pahlavi, for maintaining an “island of stability” in his troubled corner of the world, the hollow-eyed, exiled Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini landed in Tehran with a chartered plane full of fanatical fundamentalist followers from Paris and proclaimed the Islamic revolution. Overnight the balance of power in the Middle East was reshuffled. For Ivry, it turned out to be a textbook example of the Law of Unintended Consequences.
Some weeks after the headlines had shaken statesmen and military planners from the Knesset to the Capitol, Defense Minister Ezer Weizman rang Ivry in his Tel Aviv headquarters. The U.S. Defense Department had just called, Weizman informed him. It seemed that the shah of Iran had negotiated a contract to purchase 160 of America’s new high-tech F-16 Fighting Falcon combat jets. The United States, not surprisingly, had canceled the contract following the revolution. General Dynamics Corporation, the plane’s San Diego–based manufacturer, was stuck with seventy-six of the aircraft scheduled for the production line, with the first eight already being assembled. Would Israel, Defense wanted to know, be interested in purchasing them?
Ivry could practically
hear
Weizman smiling to himself on the other end of the line.
“Ken!”
Ivry said.
“Yes.” He would be happy to help the United States out. After all, what were friends for?
Conceived as a faster, smaller, lighter complement to the F-15, the single-engine F-16 went into experimental design and production at General Dynamics in 1975. The plane first flew in December 1976. Almost futuristic, designed for a single crewman, the fighter was the first aircraft to employ revolutionary space-age technology and manufacturing. Many of its parts were made of special composite materials that did not reflect radar beams and made tracking difficult, forerunners of the engineering that would eventually make possible the “invisible” stealth bomber.
Instead of the traditional mechanical control stick between the pilot’s legs, the F-16 operated by FBW, or fly by wire, a computerized control system guided by a pressure-sensitive handle on the right side of the plane that more resembled a Nintendo game stick. The handle sent electrical impulses from the control surfaces to a computer, which guided airspeed, lift, banking, sharp turns, dives—virtually all mechanical controls. A new computerized BITS, built-in test system, checked out the plane’s mechanical, electrical, navigational, communications, and weapons systems in seconds before takeoff—a process that would take techs and pilots in older fighters up to fifteen minutes, and still not cover a third of the internal mechanics BITS monitored.
The newly invented,
Star Wars–
like HUD, heads-up display, showed readouts on a see-through glass screen mounted at the pilot’s eye level so that during combat he could check G-loading, airspeed, mach number, altitude, and time- and distance-to-target readouts without ever having to take his eyes off the sky. He could also “click on” weapons icons to choose air-to-air missiles, machine guns, or bombs. The turning radius of the F-16 was one-half that of the F-4 and far better than any MiG’s. Such acute, radical turning tremendously increased the G forces pulling at the pilot. Fliers would normally black out at six or seven Gs, even wearing a pressurized G-suit. The cockpit seat in the F-16, however, was designed at a 30-degree tilt so that the pilot’s feet and buttocks were on the same level, making it harder for the pilot’s blood to leave the head and be pulled by negative Gs to the body’s extremities. The tilted seat allowed pilots to move with the plane and remain conscious at as much as nine Gs for short periods of time. And because the pilot sat in a glass bubble canopy nearly level with the fuselage (the origin of the plane’s derogatory nickname, the “glass coffin”), he could scan virtually 360 degrees and easily “check six,” that is, look all the way around for enemy planes on his tail.
Bombing, too, was computerized. The weapons system employed a graphic bomb line shown on the screen that locked on the target, allowing the pilot to guide the aircraft along the line until a circle at the end, called the “death dot,” covered the target. The pilot then pressed the pipper, the “bombs-away” button, and “pickled off” the bombs, which could hit within 15 feet of the target. The F-4 hit within 150 feet.
Ivry was convinced the F-16 could give his pilots a much needed technological advantage in attacking Osirak—if the plane performed in actual combat as advertised. But questions remained: When could the fighters be delivered? And how could a radically new aircraft be integrated virtually overnight into IAF doctrine, one of the most complex in the world?
Known as Cheyl Ha Avir, or Corps of the Air, the IAF’s dogma and tactics were highly sophisticated, continually being refined by combat experience. By 1980 the IAF had recorded some 700 kills in the air, and 13,000 total since its inception in 1947—more than all fighter kills by all the countries in World War II combined. Planes were maintained 24–7. Pilots were drilled mercilessly in the assets they had. Given the present timing of Osirak’s completion, to even consider using F-16s against the reactor, the pilots, support crews, and maintenance techs would have to be trained and “expert” in the plane’s electronics, weapons, and navigation systems in six months—a process that normally took two years.
To pull it off, Ivry would need the best and most fearless pilots. And some, perhaps, a little crazy.
In the fall of ’79, the general asked his IAF commanders to recommend their best pilots to begin training in the F-16s. Each commander argued for his nominee, but ultimately Ivry personally selected twelve pilots to attend the USAF’s Operational Training School for the F-16 at Hill Air Force Base outside Salt Lake City, Utah.
The assignment was considered a huge honor and was passed down the normal chain of command. The operational training regimen lasted ninety days. The men would attend in three groups of four, then return for reassignment to Ramat David Air Force Base, north of Tel Aviv in the heart of the Jezreel Valley. Ramat David would be home base to the IAF’s newly constituted F-16 squadron, under the direct command of the base commander, Col. Iftach Spector, a nearly legendary F-4 Phantom pilot in the IAF. Though the ultimate business plan of the new franchise would still have to be worked out, for now its first mission would be to form two squadrons expert in the F-16 and ready to train other pilots. No one outside Begin’s security cabinet and IDF high command knew anything about Osirak.
The first pilot Ivry called to headquarters was Zeev Raz, a thirty-two-year-old lieutenant colonel and father of four. Zeevi, as he was known by his pilots, was a wing commander. Like the general, Raz preferred to skip the b.s. Trim, athletic, with dark hair, he had warm, friendly green eyes that helped soften his brusque, all-business demeanor. In his preoccupation to just get the job done, Raz could be rude, but he was also understanding and loyal, loved to read and study history, and doted on his four children. Neither man had time for the “interior” life. Asked what they “felt” about something, each would look puzzled. Ivry would screw up his wispy mustache and raise his eyebrows, as though such an idea had never occurred to him. In life, there were things a man wanted to do, things a man needed to do, and things a man
had
to do. What did feelings have to do with anything?
Raz had dreamed of flying ever since he was a small boy living in the tight-knit farming community of Kibbutz Giva in the Jezreel Valley. He had been bitten by the flying bug the day of his bar mitzvah, having been given a telescope as a present. As the guests danced and ate, Raz sneaked out to the backyard and used the telescope to watch a squadron of French Mirages land at the air force base just a half mile from his home. They seemed so beautiful and graceful. And how wonderful to soar far above the earth, free of its cares and problems. But the truth was that, despite his dreams, deep down, Raz, a sensitive, introverted boy who loved to read and think by himself, could never truly see himself as a fighter pilot. So after high school, when he asked to test to enter elite pilots’ training, he was stunned to learn that he had actually passed the exams. Indeed, after he enrolled in flight school, he found that his instincts had been correct: he was not a “natural” flier, the way some people were born musicians or athletes. Learning to fly, to become an Israeli fighter pilot, one of the world’s most elite warriors, proved almost impossibly difficult.
Enrolling at eighteen or nineteen right out of high school, instead of following college as in the United States, only two out of ten candidates made the cut at Hatzerim Air Base in southern Israel. But fiercely dedicated, obsessively thorough, Raz fought his way through to become one of the IAF’s top pilots. By the time he graduated to F-4s, he had proven to be a natural leader as well.
On the afternoon of October 7, 1973, Raz would finally have the chance to do what he had dreamed of all his life: lead a squadron of brave men into a desperate battle. The preceding afternoon, at exactly two o’clock on the Sabbath of Yom Kippur, the holiest day on the Jewish calendar, Syria sent the most artillery, tanks, and infantry arrayed since World War II pouring over the Green Line, sweeping down the Golan, and nearly overrunning the fragmented IDF brigade assigned to hold the north. Subjected to a murderous counterbattery fire, outgunned 12-to-1, the Israeli mechanized artillery brigade tried desperately to hold the line. The Israeli Air Force had the fastest turnaround time from takeoff to takeoff of any nation on earth. But the sorties of F-4 Phantoms and Skyhawks cycling through Beersheba to provide air cover to the besieged divisions were being decimated by new radar-controlled Soviet SAM-6 surface-to-air missiles. Unbelievably, the Syrians were on the brink of breaking through and racing to the coast, cutting Israel in two.
Raz led his squadron off the runway, climbing steeply to the northeast, the sun a bright ball in the west behind him. The F-4s headed straight to the Syrian border. Over Mount Ramon, Raz spotted his first MiG-21. The MiG turned to engage, and Raz fired off an air-to-air Sparrow. Seconds later the MiG exploded in flame and smoke, and Raz had recorded his first kill. He felt a rush of adrenaline, but he took no joy in the death of the Syrian pilot. It was a job, something he had been trained to do—and do expertly. Within minutes the squadron chased out the Syrian MiGs and provided air cover for the besieged battalions battling below. Twenty-four hours later, Israel had managed to reinforce the northern battalions and halt the Syrian advance.
Raz’s discipline, attention to detail, and ability to organize and lead men lifted him steadily up the ranks of the IAF, first as an F-4 squadron leader and then as one of the renowned instructors at the IAF pilots school at Hatzerim. From the beginning, Ivry picked him to be his F-16 leader.
Ivry greeted Raz warmly after the pilot transferred to Ramat David. They made small talk, Ivry asking about his family. With its history of volunteerism, the Israeli military was more informal than most, especially compared to that of the United States. Not a lot of stock was put in marching and drilling and saluting.
Ivry got down to business quickly. He wanted Raz to lead the first group to Hill. “Who else is going?” Raz asked.
“Hagai Katz, Relik Shafir, and Doobi Yaffe,” Ivry said.
Raz nodded. Dov “Doobi” Yaffe was a good man. It would be good to work with him again.
The two pilots had attended the U.S. Navy’s famed “Top Gun” school together at Miramar, California, just east of San Diego. Ostensibly enrolled to hone their air-to-air combat skills, Raz and Yaffe were in reality sent to collect intelligence on the new F-5e jet fighters. The Saudis and Jordanians had bought scores of the new American-made planes to beef up their air forces, and Israel was worried about the plane’s performance specs and capabilities in combat. Top Gun was one of the few places that flew F-5es to simulate “enemy” aircraft during training exercises. By enrolling, Raz and Yaffe could study the planes in action. The Americans, of course, were not let in on this secret.
Yaffe and Raz had at first been uneasy together at Miramar. They had not known each other in Israel. And they were polar opposites. Israel then was perhaps the closest thing the industrial world had to a “classless” society. Even money did not buy you nobility. There were no Rockefeller or Kennedy Israelis. But that was not to say there were no social divisions. In
Eretz Yisrael
the social pecking order was based on how close your family tree grew to the nation’s heroic founding fathers and the generation of young men who had fought for Israel’s independence. In this sense, Doobi Yaffe was practically royalty. His grandfather Dov Yaffe had come to Israel as a Zionist pioneer from Russia at the turn of the century and founded the first agricultural settlement in Galilee. His father, Avraham, was one of the first Israeli fighter pilots and commander of Israel’s largest air force base, Tel-Nof. Doobi’s uncle “Yossi” was a national hero, a tough paratrooper who led the famous charge in the Battle of Ammunition Hill, known to every Israeli schoolboy and -girl and immortalized in the song
“Givat Hatakh Moshem.”
On the second day of the Six-Day War, Jordan’s crack 2nd al-Husseini Battalion held the hill, blocking the entrance to Jerusalem. Named after the garrison where the British had stored their ordnance during World War I, the Ammunition Hill fortification was a labyrinth of minefields, trenches, and concrete bunkers manned by artillery and tanks. Six barriers of barbed wire ringed the hill. Yossi Yaffe had to get his company up the hill, through the barbed wire, and then seize the concrete bunkers. Chewed up in a no-man’s-land by blistering machine gun fire, the paratroopers crawled barrier by barrier, using pipelike Bangalore torpedoes to destroy the barbed wire. When they finally reached the hill, the paratroopers fought hand to hand in the bloodiest combat of the war. At 03:10, Yossi radioed Commander Motta Gur that the hill had been taken. The commander shouted back: “I could kiss you!” Yossi had lost a quarter of his command, but he had opened the way for the historic taking of Jerusalem and the Old City. When he was killed by a land mine a decade later, half the nation turned out for his funeral.