BACK TO AFRICA
The flight to Sharm al-Sheikh was horrible, with air pockets all the way making the plane buck in the sky like an angry rhinoceros. Around me, troopers vomited into air sickness bags, turning the closed hold into a reeking den of unhappiness. If it went on like this all the way to Uganda, I worried to myself, we wouldn’t be fit for the job.
The temperature at the tip of Sinai that morning was close to forty Celsius (104 Fahrenheit). But we were grateful for the fresh air — at least we could breathe.
One soldier in particular, designated for my break-in team, was obviously too sick for the trip. I called over Amos Goren, a soldier from one of the BTR crews, reassigning him to my break-in squad, quickly bringing him up-to-par with a description of his job.
We sat in the hot dry shade of a hangar, waited for the planes to be topped off with fuel and for the government, meeting in an extraordinary Sabbath session, to decide whether to give us the green light. But to keep to our schedule, we couldn’t wait in Sinai for the okay. Just after one o’clock, Dan ordered us back on board the planes, which were retopped with fuel.
The turbulence flying down to Ofira still a rude memory, we boarded the planes apprehensively. But like during my boat ride to Beirut for Spring of Youth, the turbulence miraculously disappeared as soon as we took off from Sharm and began heading south over the blue waters of the Red Sea.
Twenty minutes into the air, as we were flying low to avoid Egyptian radar detection, word came to Dan via Kuti in the command-and-control plane. The government gave its okay.
The boys curled up in corners of the plane, leaning against the car and the jeep, sacked out on the floor of the rumbling airplane. It’s true of soldiers everywhere — given the chance, they can always find a way to fall asleep, no matter how noisy the surroundings.
Yonni and I bunked in the Mercedes. As usual, he carried a book in a pouch. But for the first hour we mainly talked about what each of us had missed during the week we were apart. He told me about the operation in Sinai, and I told him about the days and nights in the Pit, planning the rescue.
I told him how the first thing Ehud asked when he called me to the ad hoc task force was what I thought of Ugandan soldiers; how Shai Tamari handled all the coordination with the other forces, while Ido Embar handled the planning for the air force’s role. I told him how we sent Amiram to Paris, and how the Mossad decided that it would not be safe for him to fly back on any airline other than El Al, so he got stuck in Paris, eating his heart out that he was missing the action.
But after a while, exhaustion from a sleepless week of non-stop preparation took over. I settled into a deep sleep. Over Kenya, a massive African thunder — and — lightning storm outside the plane woke me completely. Appropriate, I thought, smiling to myself, considering the IDF computers named the mission Operation Thunderball.
The storm reminded me of all that I missed in Africa. The sky flashed with streaks of lightning outside the small portals of the Hercules. The thunder clapped louder than the Hercules engines’ rumble. The plane rocked unevenly through the sky. But for a little while I enjoyed the view, remembering the red skies of Jinja, until the storm receded as quickly as it had begun and it was time to get ready.
I checked my gear and moved around the plane, patting boys on the back, giving them a wink or a smile. I noticed one of the paratroops officers having difficulty buckling his web-belt. Coming closer, I saw his hands trembling as he tried to rush through the buckles.
I smiled at him. “Relax,” I said, checking my watch. “We’re still twenty minutes away,” I added with a grin. His pale face seemed to regain its color in front of my eyes, and he smiled back.
We all carried lightweight gear: mostly Kalashnikov AK-47s and some Galils, Israel Military Industries assault rifles still in experimental form at the time. Those carrying special equipment, whether silenced pistols or megaphones, double-checked their equipment one last time.
Yonni moved among the soldiers, shaking hands and patting backs, until we found ourselves facing each other beside the Mercedes. We shook hands, grinning at each other, and then climbed into the car as the plane began its landing approach.
Nine of us, three per bench, were crammed into the Mercedes. I sat directly behind Amitzur, whom I knew from Nahalal. Yonni sat in the same row, beside the right-hand passenger door. The rest of the break-in crews were aboard the first Land Rover behind us, while the third vehicle carried the force to protect us from the Ugandans once the shooting began. Their first job would be to take out the control tower, with its commanding view of the tarmac in front of the old terminal. Motta emphasized the point to Yonni several times during the preparations, reminding us that he was once wounded by a rooftop sniper in Gaza.
I let out a deep breath as the plane’s wheels touched the runway. “So far, so good,” I heard a soldier behind me mumble, perhaps a last prayer. Almost as soon as the plane touched ground, the rear ramp began to lower, and soon it was moving slowly enough to let the paratroopers on board run out to post lanterns for runway lights for the planes behind us.
Finally, the Hercules came to a stop. Flight crew yanked away the blocks and lashes holding the Mercedes and Land Rovers in place. Yonni tapped Amitzur on the shoulder. The car engine roared and then began to purr. The rear ramp clanked to the ground.
“Go,” Yonni ordered.
The car lunged forward and memories poured into me as we came out of the Hercules into the fresh night air of Africa right after a rain. I felt calm, almost serene, looking out into the darkness as Amitzur drove slowly but steadily, like any convoy of VIPs in the Ugandan Army — not too fast to attract attention, not too slow as to cause suspicion. The silence of the night was absolute. Far ahead, the old terminal was but a glow in the dark.
I turned to look over my shoulder. Right behind us, the Land Rovers did indeed look like Ugandan troop carriers — though the soldiers’ faces were white, not black. Nonetheless, everything felt right.
I broke the radio silence between the three vehicles with the code word to my break-in crews to prepare their weapons. The ratcheting sounds of seven assault rifles clicking their first round into the chambers filled the car. I used the code word to order the break-in crews to set their weapons to single-shot mode for selective shooting.
The distant halo of the old terminal’s lights sharpened into detail as we rolled closer. I could see the canopied entrances to the building, just as we expected, and began the countdown in my mind to the moment when the car would stop in front of the building — and we’d rush out into action.
Out of the corner of my eye I noticed two Ugandan soldiers. One of them was walking away from his comrade, disappearing into the dark. But I concentrated on the building ahead. We could ignore the Ugandan guards — that’s why we were in the Mercedes.
The lone Ugandan sentry noticed our arrival and, in the standard operating procedure of a Ugandan soldier, raised his rifle and called out, “Advance.”
It was nothing to get excited about. Just routine. I used to see it all the time in Uganda. We could drive right by him. That’s why we were in the Mercedes. “Eighty, seventy, sixty,” I was saying to myself under my breath, concentrating on the first canopied entrance, where I would push through the doors and enter the hall where the terrorists field the hostages. When I reached zero, the action would begin.
“Amitzur,” Yonni suddenly said, breaking the silence in the car, and my concentration. “Cut to the right and we’ll finish him off.” The car swerved to the right.