But in front of us—I made sure my office’s door remained wide opened all the time—Mirage No. 15 stood in silence in the parking lot, carrying the Dagger on its wing, complete and shining. And this is what changed the course of the discussion. After all, we were in a war, and we all were air force men.
After an hour of heated exchanges, things calmed down. Joe gave us permission to continue “the testing of the pylon.” Before he got up to go home, I squeezed out of him acknowledgment that the testing included weapons firing. This, of course, was written into the pylon testing order. Nobody mentioned “missile” or “Dagger,” but it was all clear. At the door he retorted, “We’ll see what will come out of this.”
“Joe,” I promised him, “this will be a great success!”
“I am really moved,” he said ironically. “But let’s be clear, Major Spector, this is only a test, nothing more. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You will not get Daggers for your squadron!”
“Of course not, sir.”
“And no matter what comes out in the tests, don’t even think of taking a Dagger operational! You don’t have permission!”
“Right, sir.”
This was mid-July 1970, and things were coming to a boil.
BOTH KHETZ AND I WERE CALLED to air force headquarters for a special briefing. Some important operation was cooking. Khetz invited me to drive there with him, so as I landed he was waiting to pick me up at the aircraft. He drove his car to Tel Aviv in uniform, and I sat beside him in my sweaty flight suit.
A different crowd was gathered in the barracks that served as a briefing hall. In the first row, near the air force commander sat Minister of Defense Moshe Dayan. This was unusual. In the middle rows sat an odd mix of uniformed personnel I had never seen before, and quite a number in civilian clothes. We, the few invited squadron commanders, sat in the back rows, as usual. It was our habit, from the old days of being the “opposition.”
Looking at the strange people, I elbowed Khetz.
“EW,” he answered me obscurely, whispering.
“EW what?”
“Electrons,” he shut me up, left me, and went to sit in the front, among the VIPs. I didn’t know what he was talking about. Colonel Agassi, the chief of operations, finally took the podium. Silence fell; the air was thick. Agassi presented us with the operation, code-named Challenge. The part that involved me and my Mirages was nothing; just a four-ship formation patrolling along the Suez Canal to prevent interference by MiGs.
“First, clear?”
“Clear,” I answered. From now on I was free to listen to the crux of the program. It was a large operation to attack the Egyptian SAM array that lay beyond the Suez Canal, on the way up to Cairo. It was a huge array, with many missile batteries, gun points, and radar installations woven into a complete unit. A giant antiaircraft fortress.
Then my mouth fell open. The plan Agassi presented was so weird, and so different from anything I ever imagined, that I couldn’t believe my eyes. An armada of Phantoms, flying formation at high level, was to cross the canal and fly directly into the SAM array. I couldn’t understand their flight profile. The Phantoms were supposed to fly in large formations directly at the missiles at high altitude in straight and level flight. This was nuts. The enemy batteries would be given optimal conditions, conditions that every Egyptian missile man could only dream about.
I rubbed my eyes. “What is this for, the Independence Day parade?” “Husshh!” whispers came from all around. If the atmosphere hadn’t been so serious, and the people around so tense and somber, and the minister of defense in the audience, I would have thought somebody was pulling our legs. The proposed plan looked to me like a bad joke.
The tactics I was brought up on were that one should penetrate areas of missile danger at low altitude, close to the ground, and at maximum speed. Surprise the enemy like lightning. Approach clandestinely and indirectly, hit the target, and get out of there as fast as possible. The flocks of geese on the blackboard were cruising calmly, directly into the heart of the missile killing zone. This approach contradicted anything I had known.
I stopped laughing, looked around, and was shocked. Then I thought that there must be something here I don’t understand. And again my eyes were drawn to the “EW” people who were sitting before me and whispering to each other. Who were these people, and what were they doing? Who invited them here?
There were others in the audience who felt as I did. Stares crossed, people shrugged. I whispered to my neighbor, “Do you understand this
He shrugged. “I don’t understand it, either.”
AND THERE WAS SOMETHING ELSE weird in this briefing. It dragged on, gray and dusty like a sack. I felt there were holes in it, things unsaid. It was strange, and even Agassi was different on the podium this time. He was not energetic, and his voice didn’t boom as it used to. He hesitated, and at one point stopped and looked at Moti. The air force commander nodded, and Agassi turned to the room and asked all the pilots, except the few Phantom senior pilots and navigators, to leave the hall and wait outside.
“We’ll call you back in ten minutes.” I got up to leave, and noticed that most of the audience remained sitting. Only we non-Phantom pilots were sent out. The door closed behind us.
We hung around on the hot, dry lawn, everybody silent and withdrawn. I lay down on the ground in my flight suit and sucked a grass stem. Something mysterious was being discussed inside there, some secret not for us to know. That is the magic, I thought. I was not so curious as hopeful.
WHEN WE WERE INVITED in again, the briefing was already in its final stage. Moti stood on the podium and summed up. After him the minister of defense got up also and added some formal words. And again a weird sensation passed through me—it all seemed like a ceremony, not like the end of a good briefing before a good military operation.
“All right,” Agassi woke me from my musings, “start getting ready. The operation will take place this coming Saturday. Detailed orders will reach your squadrons tonight, through the teleprinter.”
When we were released, I walked to the front row to join Khetz. Small groups gathered in the passage, discussing and arguing. When they saw me coming, everybody fell silent. Khetz noticed me coming, hesitated for a moment, and then said, “Listen, perhaps you can find yourself a lift back to base? I have something to do in town.”
“What lift?” I wondered. “Nobody here is going to Hatzor. What, you suggest I get out to the road in my flight suit and stick out my thumb?”
“No… but perhaps a driver can be found for you in the transportation section here.” But when he saw my face, Khetz changed his mind. “Okay, never mind. We’ll go back together. But I have a meeting in town. I have to ask you to wait outside. Don’t be offended, please.”
I had no alternative. On the way to Jaffa I sat by him in silence and asked myself if Khetz was leading a double life.
IT WAS EARLY EVENING. The small military Citroen stopped in the corner of the road above the small fishermen’s harbor in the ancient city of Jaffa. I saw on the stone wall a restaurant sign. Khetz turned off the engine and got out of the car. I began organizing myself for an hour of dozing, but suddenly he returned and opened the door on my side.
“Come on, come with me.”
“Forget it,” I said. “You go and finish your business. I’ll stay here.” I hate to be a nuisance. “Go ahead, Khetz, don’t worry.”
“Forget it. I am not going to leave you here in the car.” And suddenly Khetz understood and laughed. “It’s not what you think, idiot. I have a friend waiting here, an American. We’ll sit, eat something, talk business. Why should you stay in the car?”
“Okay,” I finally acceded. “I’ll take another table.” I was hungry.
