The Class

protect our people everywhere.”

Eva cried softly against his chest, realizing she’d made too good a Jew of him. His love for Israel now transcended even what he felt for his own family.

And so she let him go. Not even telling him that she was pregnant again.

“Get the hell out of here, saba. This is young men’s work.”

“C’mon, Yoni,” Jason insisted, “if there’s an operation, I want to be part of it.”

“Look, I’m not saying there is. So far, the government thinks it’s much too risky. To be perfectly frank, we haven’t been able to come up with a game plan that’ll have even a fifty-fifty chance of working.”

“Then why not at least let me in on the skull sessions? For God’s sake, I’m not too old to think.”

Their argument was interrupted by Major General Zvi Doron, former head of Sayaret, now chief of intelligence of the entire Defense Forces.

“Hey, guys,” he barked, “this is no time to bicker. What are you doing here, Gilbert?”

“I’m reporting for duty, Zvi.”

“Look,” Yoni said sternly, “we’re up against a wall and we’re wasting precious time. So I’m going to give you sixty seconds to convince me why the sentries shouldn’t throw you out. Now talk fast.”

“Okay,” he began, desperately searching for an argument. “When you picked a team to capture Adolf Eichmann, you deliberately chose concentration-camp survivors. Because there’s no one braver or less compromising than a victim with a chance for revenge.”

He paused and then added, “I’m a victim too. Those animals killed the first woman I ever loved. And there’s no one in this unit who would give more to spare others from living with that kind of pain.”

Jason unashamedly wiped his cheeks with his sleeve. And then concluded, “Besides, you still haven’t got a better soldier than me.”

Zvi and Yoni looked at each other, still uncertain.

Finally the commander spoke. “Listen, this whole operation is crazy. If they let us do it, maybe we need a lunatic like Gilbert.”

While the Sayaret was thrashing out a battle plan, the Israeli government was still trying to negotiate with the hijackers-at least to stall for time.

After another forty-eight hours, the non-Israeli passengers were released and flown to France, where they told a harrowing story. As in the Nazi concentration camps, there had been a “selection”-and the Israeli hostages had been placed in a room separated from the others.

The cabinet was under mounting public pressure to accede to the demands of the terrorists and save a hundred innocent lives. As they hovered on the brink of capitulation, they received a visit from Major General Zvi Doron, who informed them that his staff had come up with a plan for liberating the hostages by force. He explained it in detail and the ministers agreed to think it over.

Meanwhile, Doron went back to rehearse the landing at Entebbe.

Since Israeli architects had helped to build the old Ugandan air terminal, they had detailed blueprints and were able to build a full-scale mockup. And, based on the evidence gained from those released in Paris, they were able to pinpoint where the hostages were being kept.

As one of the veterans present, Jason joined in the discussion of logistics. They could not fly a large force so great a distance, therefore everything would depend on the element of surprise.

Their huge Hercules C-130 transport planes were slow but — at least had the range to get there. Still, how the hell could they free the hostages and get them on board before the entire country descended upon them?

In their thoroughness they watched home movies of Idi Amin, the Ugandan leader, riding around Kampala in his long black Mercedes.

“That’s what we need,” Jason urged. “If we can just make the guards think it might be Amin arriving, we can buy fifteen or twenty valuable seconds until they find out otherwise.”

“Good idea,” said Zvi. And then turning to his adjutant he said, “Find us a Mercedes.”

They planned on taking a two-hundred-man strike force, and a few jeeps and land rovers, divided among three transport planes. A fourth Hercules would serve as a flying hospital. For they estimated ten to fifty casualties- if they were successful.

Late that afternoon, the adjutant arrived with the only Mercedes he could find. It was a white diesel model that coughed and sputtered like an asthmatic horse.

“We can’t use that wreck,” Zvi said. “Even if we paint it, that damn knocking motor will give us away before we start.”

“Listen,” Yoni suggested, “why not let Gilbert try to give it an overhaul? He’s not too old to fix motors.”

“Thanks, sweetheart,” Jason said sardonically. “Get me some tools and I’ll make that thing as quiet as the fanciest limousine.”

He sweated all evening and through the night tuning the ancient vehicle. Then he supervised some of the other commandos spraying it black. But it still needed some spare parts, a list of which he gave to Yoni.

“Do you expect us to send to Germany for this stuff?” the younger officer asked.

“I expect quicker thinking than that from a Harvard man, Jason retorted. “Find some Mercedes taxis and steal the parts.”

Yoni smiled and went off to select the most likely car thieves among his men.

On Friday the unit held a full dress rehearsal in their model of the old terminal, it took sixty-seven minutes by the stopwatch, to go from imaginary touchdown to evacuation and takeoff.

“Not good enough,” Yoni said to his weary soldiers. “If we don’t get this down to under an hour, we don’t move.”

They took a break for a dinner of C-rations and ran through it again. This time it was 59:30.

After the exercise Yoni gathered his men and made a short announcement.

“The terrorists’ ultimatum expires tomorrow evening. That’s when they say they’ll start shooting the hostages. We’ve got to get there before it happens. The trouble is, the cabinet won’t be voting on our plan till tomorrow morning. So we’ve got to start the operation and hope they’ll radio us to go ahead. Obviously, nobody leaves the base. All the phone lines have been cut. Now try to get some sleep.”

The young soldiers disbanded and started toward the adjoining room where they had their sleeping bags. Only Jason remained to speak to Yoni.

“Thanks for your help,” Yoni said, “I’m really glad you came along.”

“But why aren’t you letting me onto the plane?”

“Look,” Yoni said quietly. “The — average age of these boys is about twenty-three. You’re almost forty. Even the greatest athletes slow down by then. They lose that crucial split second of reaction time.”

“But I can hold my own, Yoni. I know it. I want to go, even if it’s just to service the motors.”

“Look, saba, this is too serious to let emotions creep in. You’re staying here. And that’s final.”

Jason nodded silently and left the room. He walked out of the Sayaret building and, benefiting from years of experience at eluding detection, slipped by the guards and disappeared — into the night.

Operation Thunderbolt began just after noon on Saturday, July 3.

First the medical equipment was loaded. Then the military vehicles. Then the black Mercedes. Finally, the men clambered aboard for the five-thousand-mile rescue mission that could not afford to be less than perfect.

Four Hercules “Hippos” lumbered down the runway and into the air heading south. Their plan was to stop for final refueling at Sharm El-Sheikh, the southernmost point of Israeli territory. That would give them maximum possible range.

The pilots’ cardinal objectives were to avoid detection by Arab radar and take extraordinary measures to conserve fuel. For the latter purpose they flew so low that the gusts from the desert shook the planes ceaselessly. And when they landed in Sharm El-Sheikh, after only a half-hour in the air, some of the assault force were