Bruria was washing clothes when Yoni Netanyahu finally returned home at four in the morning. He was covered in grime and looked exhausted. ‘I bet you haven’t eaten,’ she said. ‘I’ve made your favourite lemon meringue pie. Why don’t you have a piece?’
He went to the fridge and took half a mouthful with a spoon. ‘Delicious. I’m going to have a shower and then bed. Will you be long?’
‘No.’
Ten minutes later, she went into the bathroom and found Yoni still under the shower, his head propped against the wall, his eyes closed. She helped him to wash and got him into bed. Within seconds he was asleep.
Maggy woke in the Old Terminal building with nausea and severe stomach cramps. ‘I feel terrible,’ she moaned, curling herself into a ball.
‘Me too,’ said Agnès. ‘It must have been something we ate.’
All around them people were groaning in pain or making rapid visits to the toilet. Too ill to move was Isa, the young French interior designer. ‘Oh my stomach hurts!’ she complained to Willy, one of the few not affected.
‘Could it be your period?’ he asked helpfully.
Also stricken with cramps and nausea was the Israelis’ unofficial spokesman, Ilan Hartuv. But as he hastened to the toilet he was stopped by Faiz Jaber. ‘I saw you talking to President Amin,’ said the terrorist chief in Arabic. ‘What are you plotting against us?’
Hartuv could understand Arabic but not speak it very well. ‘I wasn’t talking to him,’ he replied in English. ‘I was translating his words into Hebrew.’
‘Why do you move about so much?’ Jaber persisted.
‘I just want to go to the bathroom.’
‘You’re lying, you’re lying!’ snarled Jaber, using his rifle butt to push Hartuv out of the large hall to the spot where he was on guard duty.
‘Stand there,’ said Jaber, pointing to a muddy puddle that had formed from the overnight rain. ‘And don’t move.’
After a short time, Hartuv complained that he was cold and his thin cloth slippers were soaked. Jaber responded by chambering a round into his weapon, the sound terrifying the Israeli. He stood rooted to the spot, awaiting his execution. But then the Peruvian intervened. ‘What’s the problem?’ he asked Jaber.
After Jaber had responded in expletive-laden Arabic, the Peruvian told Hartuv to go back inside. ‘He’s in charge,’ he told the Israeli. ‘You must be very careful what you say and do around him.’
In the large hall the majority of the hostages were sick and the symptoms–stomach pains, nausea and diarrhoea–made the Egyptian doctor suspect they had eaten contaminated meat. This inference was given added weight by the fact that none of the Orthodox Jews, all of whom had refused to eat the non-kosher meat, was ill. The doctor offered antibiotics as an antidote, and one by one the stricken hostages rose from their mattresses to get an injection or some tablets.
A few refused, including Isa who was given permission by the terrorists to go outside and get some air. There, while chatting with other sick hostages, she was challenged by the pilot Michel Bacos. ‘Surely,’ he said, ‘if you were genuinely sick you would not be talking like this. You’d be lying down.’
Disdaining to respond, she brushed past him and returned to her mattress, ignoring all who came to comfort her. These commiserators were mostly young French hostages who had not fallen ill, including Cécile, Marianne, Willy and Jean-Jacques Mimouni. As ever, Jean-Jacques was selflessly making tea for anyone who wanted it.
Worried by this outbreak of sickness and the unsanitary conditions in the bathrooms, the terrorists arranged for the Ugandans to bring in a tanker of fresh water and a pump to clear the blocked toilets. As they were doing this, Willy saw an eighth terrorist–another Palestinian–arrive in the main hall. He was of medium height, fairly muscular with a moustache and dark hair, and wearing green trousers and a green tee-shirt with a yellow border on its sleeves and neck. Most of the hostages had not seen him before and he has never been identified. It is just possible that he was Wadie Haddad, the leader of the PFLP–EA and mastermind of the hijacking, a man that Gerd Schnepel of the Revolutionary Cells later insisted was in Uganda that day.
Amos Eiran arrived early at Yitzhak Rabin’s apartment with, as requested, a draft briefing for a government decision on a military operation. He found Rabin chain-smoking, a full ashtray at his elbow.
‘Amos,’ he said, cigarette in hand, ‘I’ve been thinking about the plan all night and I’m about to give it my approval. The pilots have shown they can land in the dark and that the element of surprise is possible. I’m also satisfied that the airport is not rigged with explosives. I think it’s worth the risk. Besides, the hijackers have rejected the list of terrorists we’ve said we’ll release on the grounds that they aren’t the ones they’ve asked for. We’re at an impasse unless we cave in completely and free men with Israeli blood on their hands. And that’s something I’m not prepared to do while there’s an alternative.’
Once they had finished correcting the briefing draft, Eiran left to get the document typed up. Accompanying him to the lift, Rabin asked: ‘By the way, can you prepare a resignation letter for me in case the mission fails.’
Eiran raised his eyebrows. ‘What is your definition of failure?’
Rabin shrugged. ‘If twenty-five are killed, I will regard the operation as having failed and assume personal responsibility. Fewer than that and it’s a success.’
‘What are the chances of that?’
‘I would say not greater than fifty–fifty. Many things can go wrong.’
Israeli Ambassador Uri Lubrani was having his weekly meeting with Abbas Ali Khalatbari,* Iran’s urbane French-educated foreign minister, when the door opened and a secretary entered. She walked over to Khalatbari and whispered in his ear. As she spoke, the foreign minister’s eyes widened and swivelled towards his guest.
‘Uri,’ said Khalatbari in English, ‘your secretary is asking to speak to you urgently. You can use the phone next door.’
Lubrani rose to his feet. ‘I apologize,’ he said. ‘I won’t be long.’
Angry that his meeting had been interrupted, Lubrani was about to tear his secretary off a strip when she pre-empted him. ‘Please don’t be cross,’ she implored. ‘I’ve just been called by the Prime Minister’s Office in Tel Aviv. You must return to Israel as soon as possible. The plane is on the tarmac. Please ask your wife to prepare some clothes. They’ll be waiting for you at the airport.’
Lubrani was perplexed. ‘What’s this about?’
‘They didn’t say. But they want you back in Israel as soon as possible.’
As Lubrani put the phone down, it suddenly dawned on him. ‘It must be to do with Entebbe,’ he said to himself. ‘They’ve taken up my offer.’
Having made his apologies to Khalatbari, he left the building.
Retrieving the recently delivered copy of the Daily Express from the hall floor of his Surrey farmhouse, Chapman Pincher noted with satisfaction that his Entebbe story was the front-page splash. ‘AMIN’S DEADLY HIJACK GAME’ read the banner headline, above a brief 450-word article that accused the Ugandan president–a ‘fanatical Moslem’ who was ‘bitterly opposed to Israel’–of assisting the terrorists. Citing freed hostages as its source, the article claimed that Amin had given the terrorists extra weapons, including sub-machine guns; allowed at least two more terrorists to join the original four hijackers; and provided Ugandan troops to help guard the hostages so that the terrorists could sleep. He had, as a result, made it impossible for the Israelis to use the standard tactic of prolonging negotiations to exhaust the hijackers and break their resolve.
Amin’s priorities, said Pincher in the article, were twofold: to save the lives of the hostages; and to secure the release of as many Palestinian prisoners in Israel as possible, which in turn would bring him prestige in black Africa and in several Arab countries. He had been, moreover, a recent target for assassination and was ‘relying on the airport crisis to keep his troops occupied’.
As Pincher finished reading his article, the phone rang. It was his Mossad contact in Paris. ‘I’ve just seen what you wrote and wanted to thank you. It’s exactly what we were hoping for.’
Pincher’s suspicions were immediately rekindled. It was usually him expressing his gratitude to a source, not the other way round. There was, he felt, more to the story than met the eye. It had been deliberately placed for a reason: but what? All the press reports coming out of Uganda were claiming that Amin was playing the role of honest broker, and had helped to secure the release of the non-Israeli hostages. Why, then, were the Israelis keen to accuse him of complicity? It was not likely to help the negotiations with the terrorists. It did not make sense and his source had given him ‘no clues’ to the real reason.
Bruria woke as Yoni was putting on his olive-green combat fatigues. ‘I’m late for work,’ he complained. ‘People are already waiting for me. If I don’t come back tonight you’ll know there’s something on.’
Bruria frowned. ‘A few minutes more won’t make any difference. You need to eat and we need to talk,’ she said, thinking about the letter he had left her the day before.
When there was no reply, she asked: ‘It’s Entebbe, isn’t it?’
‘Okay,’ he said, after a pause, ‘you’re right.’
‘Is Ehud doing it?’
‘No. This is my operation. But you’re not to worry because I doubt the government will have the courage to approve it.’
She sat him at the table and put the lemon pie in front of him. He ate half of it in silence. ‘Why aren’t you saying anything?’ she asked.
‘I’m thinking of my soldiers.’
‘Yoni, you must learn to be a little more open with me, with everybody.’
He changed the subject. ‘Tell me where you’ll be today. I don’t want you to leave home.’
She was about to ask him about the letter when he stood up and kissed her. ‘I’ve got to run.’
When he had gone, she suddenly remembered their German Shepherd. She rushed out of the flat and down the stairs, shouting: ‘Yoni! You forgot to say goodbye to Mor!’
But he was already driving away.
Shimon Peres had called a final meeting at 9.30 a.m. in his Kirya office for the generals and senior officers involved in the planning and control of the operation, including Motta Gur, Kuti Adam and Benny Peled. It was a fiercely hot day, with the temperature heading for the 90s, and the single whirring fan on the sideboard was merely circulating hot air. ‘Motta,’ said Peres, mopping his brow with a handkerchief, ‘can you go over the plan once again, but slowly, stage by stage.’
‘Of course,’ said Gur, standing with a pointer in front of a diagram of the airport. ‘Five Hercules–one in reserve–will fly down to the Sinai with the troops and the vehicles at 1130 hours. Then, if we get the go-ahead from the Cabinet, four Hercules will take off from the Sinai at around 1530 hours and be over Entebbe at 2300 hours. The first plane will come to a halt at the end of the runway and disgorge two Land Rovers and the “presidential” Mercedes, all with soldiers aboard, guns at the ready. These vehicles will head immediately for the Old Terminal building where, as we know from the released passengers, the Israeli hostages are being held. They will then neutralize the hijackers and take over the building. Five to seven minutes later, the other three planes will land in close succession, protected on the ground by a detail from the fighting force aboard the first plane. They will unload armoured cars which could be used, if necessary, to fight the Ugandan troops. They will also bring the medical team and a unit whose job it is to take care of the hostages and help them to emplane. At this point one plane will draw up near the Old Terminal building, board the hostages and take off. The other three planes will taxi to the New Terminal building and board the troops and vehicles there, before taking off. Any emergency medical treatment can be performed aboard the planes.’
‘How long will it all take?’ asked Peres.
‘Well,’ said Gur, ‘the whole ground operation during the dress rehearsal last night took fifty-five minutes. If all goes well, therefore, we should be in and out in under an hour. But if a firefight develops with the Ugandan forces, or if we suffer a lot of casualties, it could take much longer. In any event, the operation on the ground should end before 2 a.m. our time at the latest. I should add that the latest intelligence from Entebbe, received via the released hostages, is very encouraging: the Air France plane seems to be empty and there is no reason to believe that the terrorists have mined or booby-trapped the approaches to the Old Terminal building.’
Peres thanked Gur and closed the meeting. He realized that the timetable was beginning to look very tight. The planes were due to leave Lod Air Force Base for Sharm el-Sheikh at 1.20 p.m., and be in the air again, bound for Entebbe, no later than 3.30 p.m. They could be recalled, of course, but the earlier the Cabinet made its decision the better. He therefore called Prime Minister Rabin and asked if he could bring forward the noon meeting of the ministerial task force by an hour. Rabin’s compromise was 11.20 a.m.
Health Minister Henry Kyemba climbed the stairs to the sixth floor of the Mulago Hospital and was directed by a doctor to a private room in Ward 6B, reserved for VIPs. A policeman was guarding the door. Inside he found a frail white-haired old woman in bed, still wearing the light-grey dress she had been admitted in. Her handbag and cane were propped in a corner.
‘Hello,’ said Kyemba, ‘how are you? I hope you will soon be well.’
‘I’m all right,’ replied Dora Bloch, ‘but I’m worried about my son Ilan.’
Realizing that she was referring to a son still at the airport, Kyemba tried to reassure her. ‘Don’t worry. Everything will be all right.’
‘I hope so.’ She looked towards the door. ‘Could you say something to the guard. He keeps looking through the window and it’s frightening me.’
Kyemba went outside and told the guard to stay on his bench and not keep checking on Mrs Bloch. ‘After all,’ he added, ‘she’s very old and can’t walk very well.’
After she had thanked him for speaking to the guard, he left the room, much moved by the old lady’s ‘gentleness’ and ‘helplessness’. She reminded him of his mother who was about the same age and had recently been hospitalized. Though Mrs Bloch had made a good recovery and could have gone back to the airport, he was anxious to look after her and so arranged with the doctor for her to stay another night in the hospital ‘rather than face the discomfort of the airport hall’.
Once word had spread through the Unit’s base that the mission to Entebbe was still on, a group of junior officers approached their team commander Captain Giora Zussman. They were the same officers who had expressed reservations the night before, and now they wanted Zussman to speak to Yoni. ‘You’ve got to tell him,’ said one, ‘that the details haven’t been properly worked out.’
After Zussman had passed on the message, Netanyahu called all the officers involved to a meeting in the office of his deputy, Yiftach Reicher. Their first complaint was that the covering team had been ordered not to open fire at Ugandans in the control tower or on the Old Terminal’s roof unless bullets came from there, by which time it might be too late.
Yoni’s patient response was that the firefight was unlikely to last longer than a minute, and that during that time he would be at the front of the building, ‘deciding if a team is stuck and another needs to be called in’, or even to go in himself. But if he had a team behind him ‘pouring heavy fire in the direction of the tower or the upper floors’, it would result in ‘so much havoc and noise’ that he ‘might lose control at the critical moment’ and not be able to communicate with the different teams. He reminded them that they were undertaking ‘a rescue mission, not a conventional assault’, and that their priority was ‘to secure the rooms’ where the hostages were. For that reason he did not want any covering fire until the terrorists were dead.
Seemingly convinced by Yoni’s argument, the officers raised other issues. They asked questions like: What happens if one team is knocked out? Who would replace it? Yoni’s response was: ‘We’ll do it this way or that.’ After an hour, recalled Zussman, the officers departed ‘feeling completely different, feeling that a lot of things… that hadn’t been clear were settled now. It was an excellent meeting.’
For thirty minutes, using maps, diagrams and notes, General Gur gave Rabin and the other five members of the ministerial task force a detailed briefing of Operation Thunderbolt in the Prime Minister’s Office in the Kirya. Most of them already knew of the plan’s existence, thanks to Peres, but this was the first time they had been led through it step by step. ‘After attending last night’s exercise,’ Gur concluded, ‘I can recommend that the Cabinet approve the plan.’
Peres, his voice cracking with emotion, spoke next. ‘Prime Minister,’ he said, ‘the prospects for a successful rescue operation are better now than they have ever been. The chief of staff is now totally in favour, as are, I’ve been led to believe, the foreign, transport and justice ministers. My position is well known to everyone in the room. That just leaves you and Yisrael to make up your minds.’
Despite his earlier words to Amos Eiran, Rabin still had reservations. ‘We have to accept,’ he said, after a lengthy pause, ‘that there is still a real possibility the operation will not succeed. And if it doesn’t, that failure will badly damage the IDF’s prestige and its ability to act as a deterrent force. We can’t forget that we’re relying on yesterday’s intelligence, and that things on the ground might have changed in the last twenty-four hours. We must remember that there’s an alternative.’
Was this hesitation typical of Rabin’s inability to make up his mind, particularly as he got closer to the point of no return? Or was he deliberately tweaking Peres’s tail for lobbying behind his back? It is hard to know, but it caused the defense secretary to lose his temper.
‘It is Israel,’ he said sharply, ‘that has lectured the world against giving in to terrorism. If we give in now our prestige will suffer greatly. Should we ignore the fact that the hijackers have conducted a “selection”, separating the Jews from the others aboard the plane? If the operation succeeds, the mood of the entire country will suddenly and dramatically improve. It’s true that the operation will put our finest soldiers at risk. But we have always been ready to risk lives to save a larger number of lives by using our own forces, and without recourse to outside assistance.’
Rabin rubbed his forehead. The raw emotion of Peres’s words had finally convinced him: the operation had to be authorized. ‘When do the planes have to go?’ he asked Gur.
‘They must leave central Israel for the Sinai shortly after 1300 hours,’ responded the chief of staff, ‘and be in the air again by 1530 hours.’
For Peres, it was the first indication that the prime minister was ‘coming round’. He slowly exhaled. Barring a mutiny in the full Cabinet, the operation was on.
For the sick and exhausted hostages, the morning hours seemed to crawl by as they lay on their mattresses in the large hall. Few had the strength to talk or play cards, and tempers were short. Pilot Michel Bacos seemed particularly out of sorts as he wandered the room, urging people to obey the terrorists’ orders to leave a three-yard zone in front of the windows and not to discuss politics. The more generous of the hostages ‘put his bad mood down to tiredness’ and an attack of arthritis.
By the time the yellow bus brought lunch, people were beginning to get back on their feet, though few had much of an appetite. This did not, however, stop them complaining. ‘Madame,’ said one to an Israeli female teacher who was giving out food, ‘that’s three times you’ve served the same people.’
As soon as lunch was over, Jean-Jacques Mimouni restarted his drinks service. He had been given fresh supplies by the Ugandans, and was now able to offer coffee and tea with sugar. He also told jokes, and his cheery presence was for many hostages a rare ray of sunshine on a depressing day.
‘What I’m about to say is top secret,’ said Rabin, staring down the long conference table in his Kirya office at Motta Gur and the seventeen Cabinet ministers. ‘We have a military option.’
Some of the ministers sat there open mouthed; others gasped. Having been told to stay in Tel Aviv on the Sabbath for this vital meeting, they had been expecting an update on the negotiations; perhaps even the news that a deal had been done and the hostages would soon be coming home. But not this.
‘It has been thoroughly examined and recommended by the chief of staff,’ continued Rabin in his usual flat emotionless tone. ‘As long as we had no military option I was in favour of conducting serious negotiations with the hijackers. But now the situation has changed.’
A minister intervened. ‘Can you give us an idea of anticipated casualties?’ he asked anxiously.
Rabin looked him in the eye. ‘The rescue operation will entail casualties both among the hostages and their rescuers. I don’t know how many. But even if we have fifteen or twenty dead–and we can all see what a price that would be–I am in favour of the operation.’
‘And are you positive,’ asked another minister, ‘there is no other way out, besides negotiating with the terrorists?’
‘Yes, I am. If we have a military option, we have to take it, even if the price is heavy, rather than give in to terrorists.’ Rabin paused to gauge the mood of his colleagues. Their pinched faces and frowns said it all.
‘I have said all along,’ he said, his voice cracking with uncharacteristic emotion, ‘that in the absence of a military plan we have to negotiate in earnest. Now that we have a military plan we have to implement it, even at a heavy cost.’
Shimon Peres spoke next. ‘I wholeheartedly agree with the prime minister. The heart-wrenching question is whether we risk the lives of innocent unarmed civilians, and save the future of this country, or not. If we surrender, terrorism will gain strength and more copycat outrages will follow. In the eyes of the world, Israel’s prestige will collapse as will her capability to defend herself. Countries around the world might understand why we did it, yet mock us just the same.’
It was now Motta Gur’s turn to take the ministers step by step through the operational details. He described the ‘stealth, caution and subterfuge that lay at the heart of the plan, all designed to catch the terrorists and the Ugandans off guard’. He concluded: ‘Gentlemen, having attended the rehearsal of Operation Thunderbolt last night I can recommend it to the Cabinet. The risk is, as I see it, very calculated and can be taken. There is a possibility of casualties, just like in any other operation we’ve ever done to rescue civilians, but overall I think the circumstances are reasonable and a military operation can be done.’
This prompted Industry and Trade Minister Chaim Bar-Lev, a former IDF chief of staff (and father of Omer Bar-Lev), to ask what would happen if the planes could not refuel. ‘They won’t be able to return home,’ replied Gur.
‘What about weather issues over there?’ said Bar-Lev.
‘It’s risky.’
‘What if,’ asked Yosef Burg, the German-born minister of internal affairs and founder of the National Religious Party, ‘we found out they moved the hostages’ location overnight?’
This time Rabin responded. ‘The mission,’ he said bluntly, ‘will be a complete and utter failure.’
Having observed that they were entering into uncharted territory, in the sense that the IDF had never previously launched a military operation outside the Middle East, Peres asked that he and Gur be excused from the rest of the meeting. They wanted to wish the soldiers the best of luck before they took off from the nearby Lod Air Force Base for the Sinai.
Once Peres and Gur had departed, Rabin assured the ministers that the planes did not need to leave the Sinai for Uganda until 3.30 p.m. and could fly for five hours and still have enough fuel to return to Israeli territory. There was, as a result, still plenty of time for them to cancel the mission if that was their decision.
Shimon Peres and Motta Gur reached Lod Air Force Base, adjacent to Ben-Gurion International Airport, as the last of Operation Thunderbolt’s 190 soldiers, twenty non-combatants and ten vehicles were being loaded aboard the four Hercules C-130s at 1.40 p.m. They made straight for Hercules One, the lead plane, where a knot of senior officers was standing on the tarmac. With the sun beating down mercilessly, and the mercury topping 100 degrees, many of the soldiers were wearing sunglasses.
The pair got out of their car and approached the officers, all of whom were in ‘full webbing and obviously in high spirits’. When they spotted Peres, their first question was: Would the Cabinet approve the mission? Peres replied that they were deciding at that very moment, and that he hoped with all his heart they would do the right thing. ‘Don’t worry, Shimon,’ said Dan Shomron, ‘everything will work perfectly.’
Next to shake the defense minister’s hand was Yoni Netanyahu. The plan, he assured Peres, was ‘one hundred per cent’.
Having embraced Peres and Gur, Shomron and the others climbed ‘into the bellies of the vast planes, smiling as if they were off on a holiday jaunt’.
The pilots of the four Hercules C-130s started their engines. In the hold of Hercules One, the lead plane, were crammed Dan Shomron’s five-man command group, Yoni Netanyahu’s assault force of thirty-four and Matan Vilnai’s fifty-two paratroopers, a total of ninety-one men and three vehicles. Every square inch of floor was occupied, and the men were relieved when the rear ramp began to rise, hopeful that the temperature at altitude would be cooler.
Suddenly the ramp was stopped and lowered again. Muki Betser could see through the gap a Jeep racing across the tarmac towards the plane. It screeched to a halt and an intelligence officer got out and ran to the rear door, waving an envelope. ‘It’s for Brigadier Shomron,’ he said.
The flight engineer took the envelope and threaded his way past the mass of humans and vehicles to the flight deck where Dan Shomron was sitting with the pilots, Joshua Shani and Avi Einstein. Soon afterwards, Yoni Netanyahu and Muki Betser were summoned to join Shomron. The envelope, they were told, was from the Mossad. It contained ‘photographs, shot from a light plane over Entebbe’ the day before. The pictures were ‘snapshots, raw data with no legends or explanations about the buildings in view’. But they were much more up to date than the ones in the mission files and included images of the New Terminal building and the fuel tanks; the military airport with eleven MiG fighters on the tarmac and the hijacked Air France Airbus clearly visible in the background at the end of the diagonal runway; and the complex of buildings that made up the Old Terminal. This latter photo seemed to confirm that only a thin cordon of Ugandan soldiers was guarding the Old Terminal. Earlier verbal confirmation of this intelligence had encouraged Gur to authorize the operation.
At 1.55 p.m., the heavily laden Hercules One lumbered into the clear blue sky above Lod, followed at five-minute intervals by the other three C-130s and a fifth in reserve. At first they flew in different directions, to confuse onlookers, and turned south only when they were well away from the area. But the need to elude Jordanian radar and Soviet surveillance ships off the coast meant that they never got much above a few hundred feet. As they were flying at such low altitude over the Negev and Sinai deserts, the upcurrents of hot air caused severe turbulence–so severe that almost all the soldiers were soon vomiting into sick-bags. Amir Ofer threw up so many times he did not think he could carry on. Another veteran of Hercules flights thought it was the ‘worst of them all by far’, and remembered his head being ‘pounded’ against the roof of the Land Rover because the plane was ‘rocking so badly’.
After an hour of this torment, the planes finally landed at Ofira Air Force Base in the southern Sinai. While the C-130s’ fuel tanks were being topped up, the groggy soldiers got off and congregated in underground hangars, one for the paratroopers and the Golani, a second for the men of the Unit. Food and drink was available, but only a few took advantage. The worst affected by the flight were still lying by the planes. They included Captain Alik Ron, a reservist who had been assigned to Netanyahu’s command team, and a young soldier who was part of Muki Betser’s break-in crew, and therefore a vital component of the plan. Ron recovered, but the young soldier did not and was replaced by Amos Goren, a fighter from Omer Bar-Lev’s BTR (leaving the total complement of Unit fighters one short). Nervous but proud, Goren was handed the soldier’s megaphone and backpack, and told by Netanyahu that he would be properly briefed on his role during the flight.
There was still no decision from the Cabinet that the operation could go ahead.
Yitzhak Rabin looked at his watch as yet another minister rose to have his say. It was 3 p.m. The Cabinet had already been meeting for two hours and still the discussion continued.
‘You have put us,’ said the speaker to Rabin, ‘under unacceptable pressure by allowing the planes to take off before we’ve made our decision.’
‘No,’ replied the exasperated prime minister, ‘this is not the first time that forces drawn up for an operation were subsequently called back when the Cabinet did not approve its execution. The ultimatum runs out tomorrow, as you know, and since such a mission cannot be launched by daylight this is the last opportunity. But now you must excuse me for a moment. I asked Yitzhak Navon and the leaders of the opposition, Begin and Rimalt, to meet me at three so that I could tell them about the military option.’
Rabin left the room and found the three members of the Foreign Affairs and Security Committee in an adjacent office. He quickly briefed them on the plan and the Cabinet’s deliberations. Begin responded for all three: ‘Mr Prime Minister, yesterday when you had no military plan, I said that since the issue was a matter of saving Jewish lives we of the opposition would lend the government our fullest support. Today, now that you have a military rescue plan, I say the same thing. And may the Almighty bring home all our people safe and sound.’
‘Thank you,’ said Rabin, embracing each of them. He then returned to the Cabinet meeting where he declared: ‘We’re going to execute a complex mission with expected casualties. Nonetheless I recommend the government approve it, though not with a light heart. Gentlemen, who is in favour of the decision that I shall now read? “The Government resolves to approve implementation of a rescue operation of the hostages held in Entebbe by the Israeli Defense Forces, according to the plan submitted by the Defense Minister and the Chief of Staff.”’
Seventeen hands–including Rabin’s–rose around the table. It was unanimous: the mission would go ahead.
The tension drained from Rabin’s body and he felt calm for the first time in a week, convinced the decision they had come to was the right one. He returned to his office and sat alone, lost in his thoughts, until Freuka Poran came in. ‘I’ve just received the signal. Our forces are on their way.’
‘So be it,’ said Rabin, rising to pour himself a glass of whisky. ‘There is nothing more I can do.’
Pilot Joshua Shani steadily increased the power as Hercules One headed down the runway of the Ofira Air Force Base and into the wind. So overloaded was the plane–carrying a payload of 14.8 tons when its safe maximum was two tons lighter–that it felt like it was taxiing rather than accelerating. The 100-degree desert heat reduced still further the power of the four engines and as Shani neared the end of the tarmac he was just two knots over the stall speed. He took off anyway and, like some prehistoric bird, the great metal beast lumbered slowly into the air.
For some minutes Shani continued flying Hercules One north in the wrong direction until he had picked up enough speed to turn the plane. Even then he struggled to keep control of the juddering C-130 as he brought it slowly round and headed for international air space above the Red Sea. Following close behind were the remaining three overloaded Hercules, their pilots finding it equally hard to manoeuvre. Forced to fly at barely 100 feet above the water to avoid Egyptian and Saudi Arabian radar, and observing strict radio silence, Shani had no means of knowing if the other planes were still behind him. So every now and again the pilots of the other C-130s would fly alongside him to show that all was well.
As during the first leg, the belly of Hercules One was crammed with soldiers: the paratroopers in the space between the three vehicles and the side of the plane; the Unit’s men in and on the Land Rovers and the Mercedes. Standing in the tiny gap between the Mercedes and rear cargo gate, Yoni Netanyahu and Muki Betser briefed Amos Goren about his role in the mission. To help the young soldier, Yoni sketched a plan of the Old Terminal on the back of a sick-bag using crosses and arrows to mark the point at which the vehicles would stop and where the various break-in crews, including Goren’s, would enter the building.
The briefing was interrupted by the message from the cockpit they had all been waiting for: the government had authorized the operation. Netanyahu merely nodded in satisfaction and continued explaining Goren’s job to him as though they were ‘going to do an exercise’. When the briefing was over, Goren folded the sick-bag and put it in the pocket of his tigerstripe combat fatigues, part of a consignment of Ugandan paratrooper uniforms that the men of the Unit had changed into during the stop at Ofira.
The two officers got into the front seat of the Mercedes and chatted about what the other had missed during the week they spent apart. Netanyahu talked about the operation in the Sinai, while Betser went through the days and nights he had spent in the Pit, ‘planning the rescue’. But eventually ‘exhaustion from a sleepless week of non-stop preparation took over’, and Betser nodded off.
Netanyahu pulled from a pouch his dog-eared copy of Alistair MacLean’s The Way to Dusty Death, a bestselling thriller about motor racing. He loved edge-of-the-seat stories and had been teased by his family for watching The Great Escape film three times in quick succession. He also liked the popular American TV series Mission: Impossible about an elite covert-operations unit, and would watch it while puffing on his pipe and making critical comments like ‘That would never work!’
After reading a few pages, Netanyahu turned to the dozing Betser: ‘We could do with a few of MacLean’s “real men” tonight, eh?’
All around men were sleeping. But a few could not, including Amir Ofer, who kept going over in his head what he was supposed to do and how he was going to do it. Though not quite quaking in his boots, he was ‘very tense’. So too was Sergeant Surin Hershko of the Tzanchanim Sayeret, but for a different reason. Like Ofir, Hershko was twenty-one years old and about to be discharged when he was nominated for the mission; yet he trusted his officers to get him back safely. He was sitting beside the Mercedes and could see Netanyahu, a man he knew and admired from the latter’s command of a tank battalion, reading in the front seat. The reason Hershko could not doze off was because he was too cramped. The only way to straighten his legs was to put them under the Mercedes. But that was not an option when turbulence bounced the car to within inches of his limbs.
At 4 p.m., Yitzhak Rabin called for his driver to take him home. There was nothing more that he could do, and he wanted to get some rest before he returned to the Kirya to listen to reports from Entebbe on a loudspeaker link-up in Shimon Peres’s office. The first plane was not due to touch down until 11 p.m. Israeli time, which gave him plenty of time to have a nap.
‘Well,’ he told his aides as he rose from his chair, ‘if there’s going to be a tragedy, God forbid, I know I will be the target for criticism. Me, and nobody else!’
He had reached the door when he was called back: Gandhi was on the line from Paris. He hesitated. General Ze’evi was the last man he wanted to talk to. ‘What am I going to tell him?’ he asked his assistants in a whisper. ‘I can’t tell him the truth…’
No, replied one, but you should still take the call.
Rabin picked up the phone. ‘What’s going on, Yitzhak?’ asked a plainly exasperated Ze’evi. ‘After all, tomorrow is Sunday. The ultimatum expires at midday and, so far, I don’t know what is being done about it.’
‘Gandhi,’ responded Rabin in a slow clear voice, ‘you ask me what to do? Right now you are the man who has to give the answers. Go back to the French one more time, and ask them what’s happening in Uganda. Ask them whether they have any answers to our proposals in principle. I don’t have enough to convene the ministerial team, or anything to discuss.’
Rabin then repeated his previous instruction: there would be no exchange in Entebbe under the auspices of Idi Amin, who could not be trusted. ‘I personally would be happy with Paris or even Cairo,’ said Rabin, adding: ‘I want you to understand that it isn’t the number of terrorists to be released that counts, but rather the list of names. Capucci isn’t the main thing for me. I’m far more concerned about releasing someone who has committed murder…’
Realizing he was putting Ze’evi in an impossible situation, Rabin hinted that a resolution was imminent. ‘You know what? I’ll contact you again later. Perhaps I’ll have something to tell you.’
Replacing the receiver, he murmured: ‘Gandhi will kill me…’
Back home Rabin could not sleep. ‘Every detail, every phase’ of the operation was ‘etched’ in his brain. He kept going over and over the sequence of events. Convinced in his own mind that the plan would work, he finally fell asleep.
With the restraining straps not enough to prevent turbulence bouncing the Mercedes up and down, Yoni Netanyahu got out and made his way to the flight deck of Hercules One. It was packed with people: the two pilots, navigator and reserve pilot; but also the senior officers on board, Dan Shomron, Ivan Oren and Matan Vilnai, all sitting on small wicker stools.
Told by Shani that all was well, and that they were now heading on a southerly course that would take them into Eritrean, Ethiopian and finally Kenyan airspace before they reached Lake Victoria, Netanyahu agreed with Shomron that they would land come what may. He then went over a number of points with Shomron–including the exact time the latter would arrive at the Old Terminal in his command Jeep, which was being brought by Hercules Two–and remarked to Oren: ‘If he’s there I’ll kill him.’
Oren looked mystified. ‘Who are you talking about?’
‘Idi Amin.’
‘You can’t do something like that,’ said Oren, frowning. ‘It hasn’t even been discussed. You’d have to ask for approval.’
‘I don’t intend to ask. If Idi Amin is there, I’m going to kill him.’
Soon afterwards, Netanyahu queried if there was anywhere he could rest and was told by Shomron to use one of the two narrow bunks at the rear of the flight deck. ‘You sleep on the way there,’ said the operation’s commander, ‘and I’ll do the same on the way back.’
Asking the navigator to wake him up when they were thirty minutes from Entebbe, Netanyahu climbed into the bunk, placed a blue inflatable pillow under his head and promptly fell asleep.
Uri Lubrani was forced back in his seat as the IDF’s Boeing 707 medical plane–disguised as an El Al civil airliner–accelerated up the runway and took off from Lod Air Force Base for Kenya where it was scheduled to land at 10.20 p.m. Israeli time, about forty minutes before Hercules One touched down at Entebbe.
As part of the deal agreed with the Kenyans the night before, the 707 would fly direct to Nairobi to give its medical personnel enough time to set up, in a secure corner of the airport, a field hospital to treat the many casualties that were expected from Entebbe. In that same location the five planes directly involved in the rescue–the four Hercules and the command and control 707–would be refuelled, thus enabling the whole force to return to Israel.
Lubrani’s task–as explained to him shortly after his return from Iran a few hours earlier by Prime Minister Rabin himself–was twofold: firstly, to act as a high-level representative of the Israeli government who could smooth any difficulties that might arise in Kenya before the arrival of the strike force from Entebbe; and secondly to be on hand to intercede personally with Amin if the rescue failed or the planes, for whatever reason, were unable to leave Uganda.
As the Boeing continued to climb to its optimum cruising altitude, Lubrani’s mind went back to that chilling experience in 1968 when he and Amin, Israeli ambassador and Ugandan chief of staff respectively, had been returning from a military exercise to Kampala in a Piaggio light plane when its single engine began to splutter. Realizing they would not make it to Entebbe Airport, more than an hour’s flying time away, Lubrani persuaded Amin to order the Ugandan pilot to turn back to the airstrip they had left twenty minutes earlier. With Amin praying in Arabic they made it with seconds to spare, the plane skimming the tops of trees as it glided towards the dirt runway and crash-landed. Incredibly both Amin and Lubrani were unhurt, prompting the superstitious Ugandan to declare their deliverance a miracle and to make Lubrani his ‘blood brother’.
It was because of this ‘close bond’ that Lubrani had made his original offer to fly out to Uganda. While that offer had not been accepted, it had got Rabin thinking that Lubrani, with his close knowledge of East African politics, might be useful in other ways. Hence his speedy recall from Iran and his presence on a plane that, but for him and the crew, was reserved for doctors and nurses.
Lubrani had been quick to accept Rabin’s offer. But now that he was on his way, one thought was uppermost in his mind: If the rescue fails, what can I say to Amin that will make any difference?
Shimon Peres was sitting at his desk in the Kirya, lost in thought, when his military aide entered the room. ‘Shimon,’ said Colonel Ilan Tehilla, ‘we have just had confirmation that the Boeing 707 command and control plane, with Generals Peled and Adam on board, has taken off from Ofira Air Force Base.’
Peres nodded his acknowledgement. All six planes were in the air: the slower-moving Hercules C-130s had been the first to leave Ofira at 3.40 p.m.; followed by the Boeing 707 medical plane from Lod just under three hours later; and now the command and control plane had departed from Ofira. This last plane’s vital task was to close within sixty miles of the C-130s and circle Entebbe Airport while they were on the ground, directing events and providing a communications link between the operation and Peres’s office where the action would unfold in real time.
Since the departure of the C-130s from Ofira, Peres had been monitoring the operation’s waveband on a loudspeaker in his office. The planes had orders ‘to maintain complete radio silence unless any problems arose’, and no news thus far had been interpreted as good news. Peres listened for a few minutes longer and, when he heard nothing, decided to honour his previous acceptance of an invitation to the bar mitzvah party for the thirteen-year-old grandson of Dr Herzl Rosenblum, a noted Revisionist and editor-in-chief of the mass-circulation newspaper Yediot Aharonot. Peres did so because he was anxious to ‘keep up the façade of discretion that was working so well to protect the secrecy of the operation’.
At the party he saw ‘all the big names of Israeli journalism’, and ‘not one of them had any inkling of what was afoot’. One or two even remarked on how well Peres was looking; others said he looked tired. He interpreted both comments as an attempt to elicit hints of what he was ‘doing, if anything, in connection with the hijack saga’. He stonewalled them; and when some asked him directly about the hostages, he replied that they ‘would be back home very soon, perhaps within twenty-four hours’. This had the desired effect of heightening ‘speculation as to the state of the behind-the-scenes negotiations between Israel and hijackers’.
At 10 p.m., his aim achieved, Peres left the party and returned to his office with his aides and Transport Minister Gad Yaacobi. He wanted to be back well before the scheduled landing time of the C-130s at Entebbe an hour later.
The Israeli government’s success in keeping both its own people and foreign diplomats completely in the dark about its operation to rescue the hostages was proven by a cable sent from the German Embassy in Tel Aviv to the Auswärtiges Amt (the Federal Foreign Office) in Bonn during the evening of 3 July.
The message noted that the ‘Israel crisis committee’ had met at noon ‘for some hours, without making any new decisions’, and that a further meeting of the whole Cabinet was scheduled for the following day. This was wrong on two counts: the ‘crisis committee’ had come to a decision–to launch Operation Thunderbolt–and one that had already been authorized by a lengthy follow-up meeting of the full Cabinet. Clearly the disinformation put out by the Israeli Foreign Ministry was having the desired effect.
The message went on to state that while there had not yet been an official response from the terrorists to the latest Israeli terms, the Somali intermediary had hinted that ‘the ultimatum might be extended if there is a reasonable chance of getting a result at the end’ of the negotiations. The Embassy, meanwhile, had left the Israelis in no doubt that the German government ‘would release prisoners if the Israeli government were to ask them to do so’.
The conclusion of the German Embassy was that the Israeli government wanted to ‘win some time’ and was showing no sign of being ‘willing to release’ its own prisoners. It would eventually be forced to do so, however, ‘if there are no alternatives’.
Meanwhile back in Bonn, according to a well-informed senior diplomat at the British Embassy, Schmidt’s Cabinet had already approved a hardline draft statement that was to be released before the expiry of the second ultimatum the following morning. It described those held in the FRG as ‘criminals’, and said ‘no link could possibly be established between their release and that of the hostages’. The diplomat added: ‘One wonders what might have been the effect had such a communiqué been issued on the evening of 3 July. In the event, the decision was taken to hold back the communiqué overnight.’
Hardly had the hostages begun to put out the chairs and mattresses so that people could get ready for bed than shouts and running feet outside heralded the arrival of President Idi Amin. Wearing the smart grey-blue uniform of a Ugandan field marshal, he entered the main hall of the Old Terminal building with Faiz Jaber, the Peruvian and a small entourage.
‘Shalom!’ said Amin.
The response from many hostages was hearty applause, though some of the younger ones like Willy and Isa refused to join in and remained lying on the mattresses, looking daggers at Amin and his people.
The president continued in English: ‘I’ve just got back from Mauritius where I presided over a meeting of the Organization of African Unity. During my absence I stayed in contact with the negotiators, and I continue to do everything I can to save you. I was disappointed by the attitude of the Israeli government who do not reply quickly enough, and if there is a problem it will be their fault. However, the negotiations are moving forward despite this. We are going to continue into the night and I think you will all be gone by Sunday night. Sleep well.’
After this brief speech, Amin turned on his heel and exited the building, leaving behind consternation among the many hostages who could not understand English. When it was translated for them, most looked relieved. The upbeat mood was seemingly confirmed a short while later when the yellow bus arrived with a welcome change of menu: chicken instead of boiled meat. It seemed to be a good omen.
British Foreign Secretary Tony Crosland was on board the Royal Yacht Britannia in Bermuda when he heard about the latest domestic repercussions of the hijacking crisis. He was accompanying the Queen on her week-long royal visit to the United States for the celebrations marking the 200th anniversary of the country’s Declaration of Independence on 4 July 1776–a largely ceremonial duty he was not looking forward to–and had just flown in to Hamilton, where the yacht was moored, on a VC-10 with the royal couple and his American-born wife Susan.
The news, in the form of a Foreign Office cable ‘laboriously decoded’ by one of the Britannia’s naval officers, was that Eric Moonman, Labour MP for Basildon and president of the Zionist Federation for Great Britain and Ireland, had written a letter urging the Foreign Office to raise the allegations contained in Chapman Pincher’s article in that day’s Daily Express at the United Nations.
In Crosland’s absence his deputy Ted Rowlands, the minister of state in charge of African Affairs, had told Moonman that ‘cool heads’ were required and that it ‘would not be right’ for the British government to intervene in a matter in which it was ‘not primarily involved’. It was important, added Rowlands, not to ‘cross wires’ with the other governments more directly involved like the French.
Crosland agreed with this response, and repeated the information to the British ambassador in Paris in a cable timed at 1833 hours GMT. ‘Please take an early opportunity,’ he wrote, ‘to inform the French of the above, making it clear that we are not–repeat–not initiating or suggesting action.’
At 10 p.m.–having just finished dinner at State House with guests that included Wadie Haddad, the leader of the PFLP–EA–Idi Amin phoned the home of his health minister Henry Kyemba.
Recognizing Kyemba’s voice, Amin said: ‘It’s the president. I got back from Mauritius this evening and spoke to the hostages. They don’t look well. What medical treatment are they receiving?’
‘I arranged for a doctor and nurse to be available at all times, Mr President, as you requested. A few are sick but that’s because the sanitation in such an old building is not adequate.’
Amin grunted.
‘Only one hostage has been admitted to Mulago,’ continued Kyemba. ‘A Mrs Bloch, an old Israeli lady, who was brought in yesterday with a piece of meat caught in her throat. That was dealt with and she is almost fit again.’
As he finished speaking, Kyemba felt a flutter of fear in his belly. He had deliberately lied to Amin to spare the old lady another night of discomfort in the Old Terminal. If Amin discovered the truth–that she was already well enough to be discharged–it would not go well for him. But the president suspected nothing.
‘Good,’ he replied. ‘Make sure she is returned to the airport before the expiry of the deadline tomorrow at 2 p.m.’
‘I will see to it.’
For the hostages it had been a curious evening. After dinner there had been much toing and froing of Mercedes limousines in front of the Old Terminal building, one of which had delivered Faiz Jaber from an unknown appointment. He and the other Palestinians seemed to have ‘a very satisfied air’ as if something was being prepared. They then spent a few minutes discussing something on the tarmac with a group of official Ugandans, before coming back into the building with smiles on their faces. No explanation, however, was given to the hostages.
At 11 p.m., something even odder occurred. Jean-Jacques, Isa and Willy were lying on mattresses in their usual position close to the exterior door, while next to them Agnès and Maggy were sorting out their bedding. They were approached by a white-haired Israeli man of about forty, dressed in shorts and white shirt, who asked them: ‘What are you doing? Why are you getting ready for bed when we will be leaving later?’
Staring first at the man and then at each other, they wondered if he was joking or mentally ill. He gave no hint. ‘Tonight we’re going to be freed,’ he repeated. ‘They will come to get us.’
Willy asked the man what he meant, but he could not–or would not–explain. After he had walked away, they speculated among themselves. Had he misinterpreted Idi Amin’s words to conclude they would be free tonight? Had the Israelis received a secret message from their government ‘to hold themselves in readiness for this night’? Or had the Israelis simply assumed that their government would not wait until the last minute to conduct an exchange of prisoners? Agreeing that this last scenario was the most likely explanation, they thought no more about it and got ready for bed.
By now most of the hostages were lying down. Among the exceptions was a group of four–including Akiva Laxer and Ilan Hartuv–playing bridge on a fold-up table at the left rear of the room, just beyond the glass-fronted aircraft-maintenance office. This was possible because, for the second night in a row, the terrorists had decided not to turn off any of the lights. The only dimly lit area of the large hall was where Jean-Jacques and the others were camped, thanks to the faulty row of neon lights.
Meanwhile the four terrorists on guard–Jaber, Böse, Kuhlmann and the Peruvian–were keeping cool by ‘sitting just outside the main door, talking with some Ugandans’. The remaining three were resting in the former VVIP room next to the Israeli hall.
The first of Operation Thunderbolt’s six planes to touch down on African soil was the Boeing 707 medical plane with Ambassador Uri Lubrani on board. Under the guise of a scheduled El Al flight, it landed at Nairobi’s Embakasi Airport at 11.25 p.m. local time and was at once directed to Bay 4, a cordoned-off area for aircraft requiring security precautions. There its medical teams quickly set up under canvas both an emergency room and an operating theatre in preparation for the arrival of casualties from Entebbe that were expected at around two in the morning.
Lubrani, meanwhile, had been taken to meetings with senior officers of the Kenyan GSU to coordinate the arrival of the planes from Entebbe. As only a very small number of Kenyan security officials–among them Ben Gethi, the head of the GSU–knew about the decision to let the planes land, it was agreed that Dany Saadon, the local El Al manager, would inform the Nairobi control tower only at the last minute. Even the airport director was kept in the dark, though his boss the transport minister had been informed.
Most of the senior members of the government–including President Jomo Kenyatta, Vice-President Daniel Arap-Moi and Foreign Minister Dr Munyua Waiyaki–did not yet know what was planned. But now that the first plane had landed, Charles Njonjo decided to call the president at his country home. He told him that the Israelis were about to try and rescue their hostages at Entebbe and wanted to refuel their planes at Nairobi. He also said they hoped to be able to treat any casualties on Kenyan soil. He, Ben Gethi, Bernard Hinga and Bruce McKenzie were all of the opinion that they should be allowed to do this.
There was silence for a moment as Kenyatta digested what Njonjo had told him. Then he replied: ‘Njonjo, I have not heard what you just said. If something goes wrong I shall deny knowing anything about it. I’m not saying that they shouldn’t land. What I’m saying is that officially I shall deny any knowledge of this and if it goes wrong you and the others will burn your fingers alone.’
Before Njonjo had a chance to respond, the line went dead.
Yoni Netanyahu felt a hand press his shoulder. ‘Wake up,’ shouted the navigator, above the drone of Hercules One’s four engines. ‘We’re nearing Lake Victoria. Time to get ready.’
Netanyahu turned in the narrow bunk at the back of the flight deck and blinked the sleep from his eyes. ‘How long?’ he asked.
‘Thirty minutes.’
Netanyahu swung his legs off the bunk and stood up. All along the length of the hold, men were preparing for battle by pulling on their shirts, checking their weapons and buckling on their webbing. As he moved down the aircraft, walking on the vehicles where the press of soldiers was too great, he shook hands with all his men, murmuring words of encouragement and last-minute reminders of the contingencies they had practised: ‘If there is a cordon of Ugandan troops round the terminal, the Mercedes keeps going whatever happens and the Land Rover teams mop up. If the lights are out in and around the terminal, the Land Rovers swing their headlights to illuminate the hall through its plate-glass windows and the assault groups use the light-projectors on their guns. If the terminal doors are locked, each team has the charges to blow them open. If one team is knocked out, the reserves fill in. If any force fails to carry out its objectives, radio me for immediate reinforcement.’
His last word of advice to them all was: ‘Remember. We are going to be the best soldiers at that airport tonight, and there’s nobody there who can beat us. And above all–speed, speed.’
Suddenly the plane rocked from side to side as it was hit by a fierce electrical storm. Through the small portal windows ‘the sky flashed with streaks of lightning’ and the ‘thunder clapped louder than the Hercules engines’ rumble’. Most of the soldiers felt nervous. But for Muki Betser the storm held no fears: it reminded him of the red skies of Jinja and, moreover, was oddly appropriate given the name of the mission: Operation Thunderbolt.
Noticing that one of the Tzanchanim officers was having trouble buckling his web-belt because his fingers were trembling, Betser tried to reassure him. ‘Relax,’ he said, ‘we’re still twenty minutes away.’
Once the storm was behind them, Netanyahu moved up to the crowded flight deck to watch the final approach. The sky ahead was clear and already, in the distance, they could see the runway’s landing lights. They all breathed a sigh of relief, knowing they were not expected.
A voice came over the radio: ‘Everything all right?’
It was Benny Peled, speaking from the command and control 707 which had caught up with them and was circling overhead.
‘A-okay,’ replied Shani. ‘No problems.’
To the right of the runway they could all see the New Terminal building with its lights blazing, and further to the east, less distinct but also lit up, the Old Terminal. ‘So far, so good,’ said Netanyahu. As he turned to rejoin his men, Shomron put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Now just remember,’ said the older man, ‘you’re the Unit commander and not the first man in the storming party.’
Netanyahu grinned. ‘It’ll be okay.’
He then made his way back to the Mercedes and pulled on his own heavy web harness that, like most of the Unit’s officers, he had had custom-made: eight drab brown magazine and grenade pouches sewn on to a wide foam-rubber backing for comfort; field dressing, knife, rope; and silenced Beretta .22 pistol tucked into his combat blouse.
His preparations complete, Netanyahu opened the front right passenger door of the Mercedes and climbed in beside the driver Amitzur Kafri. On the next row of seats were sitting Betser, directly behind Kafri, and three more fighters, including Giora Zussman by the right rear door. Squashed into the last row of seats, designed for just two people, were three more soldiers.
The rest of the break-in crews, including Amir Ofer, were crammed aboard the first open-topped Land Rover directly behind the Mercedes. In the equally overloaded second Land Rover was the covering force whose first job was to prevent any Ugandan fire from the control tower. Both Land Rovers were mounted with a single belt-fed MAG 7.62mm general-purpose machine gun. Most of the Unit’s soldiers were armed with Kalashnikov AK-47s, though a few had Galil ARMs, an Israeli-made assault rifle modelled on the AK-47 but with a folding stock and firing a smaller 5.56 round. All the paratroopers on board were issued with Galils.
With a soft hiss of hydraulics, the massive rear ramp ahead of the Mercedes was partly lowered in the air to save time once the plane had landed. Through the open gap, Netanyahu and the others could see the huge black expanse of Lake Victoria. ‘Start the engine,’ said Netanyahu.
Kafri turned the key and the repaired starter motor did its job: the Mercedes engine roared into life. He then turned on the car’s headlights. The drivers of the two Land Rovers did the same.
Up ahead in the cockpit, Joshua Shani was holding his breath as he guided the heavily overladen plane towards the still-lit runway. He kept saying to himself, ‘Don’t screw this up! Don’t screw this up!’, fully aware that one mistake would wreck the entire operation and cost many lives.
He had judged the approach beautifully and the plane touched down with just a minor jolt and a faint screech of rubber from tyres not fully inflated to deaden the sound. Muki Betser exhaled in relief.
With the runway lights racing past the back of the plane, one of Netanyahu’s soldiers glanced at his watch. It was 11.01 p.m. Israeli time–just after midnight in Uganda.
Yitzhak Rabin and his aides arrived at Shimon Peres’s office in the Kirya with just fifteen minutes to spare. They found the defense minister and his staff, Motta Gur, Gad Yaacobi and Yitzhak Hofi, the Mossad chief, sitting silently round the large conference table, many of them smoking to relieve the tension. The only sound was static from the loudspeaker on Peres’s desk.
At 11.03 the first momentous news came crackling through the receiver: the lead plane had landed safely.
Keenly aware that the operation was now entering its most dangerous phase, Israel’s political, military and intelligence leadership held its collective breath for what seemed like an age. In reality barely a minute elapsed before they heard a loud staccato sound that the military men–Rabin, Gur and Hofi–at once identified as gunfire. They gave each other querying looks. Were Yoni’s men already at the Old Terminal? Or had they run into trouble en route? The latter scenario, they knew, might spell disaster–not just for the hostages and soldiers in Uganda, but for every man in the room. Their reputations, and more importantly Israel’s future security, were balancing on a knife-edge.
For the second night in a row, Chapman and Billee Pincher dined with their friends the McKenzies at Knowle Park in Cranleigh. It had been a strange evening as Bruce was ‘more mysterious than ever and somewhat exhausted after another day of hectic international telephone calls’. When Chapman asked his host if he ‘thought it possible that the Israelis might somehow attempt a rescue’ of the hostages at Entebbe, he pointedly refused to reply.
It was only when the Pinchers were driving the short distance home to their farmhouse in the nearby village of Ewhurst that Billee, who had visited Entebbe with her husband and Bruce a few years earlier, suddenly piped up: ‘I know what the Israelis are going to do. They will stage a surprise attack by plane, blow up the MiGs to cause a diversion and then free the hostages.’
Chapman laughed. ‘It’s a nice idea,’ he said, ‘but it won’t happen. Entebbe is too far from Israel. The only way such a venture could work is if it was launched from Nairobi. But even with Kenya’s close links to Israel, and Bruce’s undoubted influence over Kenyatta and some of his senior aides, that scenario is simply unthinkable.’
Reducing power and braking hard, Joshua Shani was able to slow the huge bulk of Hercules One almost to walking pace by the time it had reached the runway’s mid-point. This enabled ten of Colonel Vilnai’s men to jump at intervals from the plane’s side door and place, on either side of the tarmac, two battery-operated lanterns so that the follow-up planes could land even if the permanent lights were turned off. At the same time the flight crew released the blocks and lashes securing the three vehicles.
Shani continued taxiing the plane past the New Terminal building with its lights still blazing and down the access strip that led at right angles from the main runway to the diagonal runway. He halted the plane halfway down the access strip, enabling the flight engineer to drop the rear ramp the remaining couple of feet to the tarmac. No sooner had the ramp clanged to the ground than Netanyahu tapped Kafri on the shoulder and shouted ‘Go!’
Kafri drove the Mercedes down the ramp and was forced by the narrowness of the access strip to turn sharp right under the wing, only just missing the outer engine’s still turning propeller. He was closely followed by the two Land Rovers.
Sitting behind Kafri with his window rolled down, Muki Betser thought of his last time in Africa as he drank in the cool freshness of the African night. He felt ‘calm, almost serene, looking out in the darkness’ as Kafri ‘drove slowly but steadily, like any convoy of VIPs in the Ugandan army’, not so fast as to attract attention, not so slow as to cause suspicion.
In the back of the first Land Rover, Amir Ofer had a strong sense of loneliness and foreboding as they moved towards the faint glow of the Old Terminal. He felt they were ‘approaching quietly, silently, to some sort of inevitable explosion, to a terrible clash that was about to begin’. He asked himself: How many of us will come through this?