Erich Segal - The Class

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 overwhelmed by air sickness. -One man had even fainted.

The minute they hit the airport runway and began to taxi, Yoni ordered the doctors to do something about the men whose stomachs had failed before their courage had been tested.

One of the medics shook his head and murmured, “We should have given out Dramamine pills. That was an oversight.”

Let’s hope it’s our only one, Yoni thought as he leapt from the aircraft onto the tarmac to confer with Zvi, who was riding in the second plane. At that very moment, the cabinet was meeting to decide whether to give them the green light.

Zvi also had sick men in his aircraft.

“I think we’re going to have to leave Yoav here in Sharm,” he said. “He’s much too ill.”

“What was his assignment?” Zvi asked.

“He was supposed to drive the Mercedes,” said a voice that belonged to neither of them.

And from behind the huge wheels of the C-130 Jason Gilbert appeared wearing a belt of hand grenades, his Kaletchnikov strapped to his shoulder.

“ Saba , what the hell!” Zvi snapped.

“Listen,” Jason said with quiet urgency, “I’ve been driving all night. You shouldn’t have left me behind in the first place. Now you’ve got to take me.”

Yoni and Zvi exchanged glances. The older man made an instant decision.

“Take Yoav off. Get on board, Jason.”

At 1530 hours they took off from Sharm El-Sheikh, heading straight down the middle of the Red Sea between Egypt and Saudi Arabia.

Below them they spied Russian naval vessels-doubtless equipped with radar. The four planes descended practically to sea level, acting more like flying fish than aircraft.

A quarter of an hour later, a simple message came through on their radio.

“All systems are go . We’re now cutting all radio contact. Call us when you’re on your way home.”

Yoni walked out of the cockpit and said quietly to the men, “The operation’s on. We’ve got seven hours to pass the time and then forty-five minutes to do the best we’ve ever done. Check your gear and try to get some sleep.”

One member of the assault force, dressed in an elaborate military costume to masquerade as Idi Amin, handed Jason a tube of deep brown stage makeup.

“Here, saba . If you’re supposed to be my driver you’ve got to look the part. Smear it in your hair, too. I don’t think there are any blond Ugandans.”

Jason nodded and took the greasepaint.

“This is the hardest part,” said his comrade, “the waiting, I mean.”

“I’m used to it. I once sat outdoors for three days and nights staking out a PLO big shot.”

“Yes, but how far were you from the Israeli border?” the young man asked.

“About eight miles.”

“This is a thousand times as far.”

“I didn’t say I wasn’t scared,” Jason said.

“Want a paperback?” the commando asked.

“What have you got?”

“I can lend you The Guns of Navarone .”

“You’re kidding.” He laughed. “At this point you’re better off reading the Bible.”

“No, saba , right now this is more inspirational.”

Jason sighed and reached into his breast pocket.

“What are you doing?” the young soldier asked.

“Just looking at some pictures.”

“Of the airport?”

“No. My family.”

Six and a half hours later they were over Kenya, flying in the darkness. In a few minutes more they would be over Lake Victoria and descending toward Entebbe airport. Zero hour was approaching.

Yoni walked around the plane, checking the readiness of his men. He stopped and peeked through the Mercedes window, where a blackfaced Jason was checking his pistol. He looked up as his friend approached. “I’m gonna make sure nobody takes my parking spot,” Jason smiled. “Are your boys nervous?”

“No more than you,” answered Yoni, “or me. Good luck, saba . Let’s do the job, huh?”

The timing thus far had been perfect. The first aircraft arrived just as a scheduled British cargo flight was radioing the Entebbe control tower for permission to land. The lead Hercules followed right on the limey’s tail and touched ground scarcely a hundred yards behind it. At first they headed toward the new terminal, then casually swung left, dropping mobile landing lights so the three other aircraft could easily follow. So far, no one had noticed them. They taxied to a dark corner of the field and began to disembark.

A dozen commandos jumped out and quickly set up a ramp for Jason’s Mercedes. It purred as he drove it down and started toward the building where the hostages were imprisoned.

A pair of land rovers with troops followed close behind, within sight of the control tower. Suddenly two Ugandan soldiers stepped into the road to identify the occupants of the car. Yoni and another commando dropped them both with silencer-pistols.

“We’d better go the rest of the way on foot,” Yoni whispered.

They got out of their cars and raced toward the terminal. Seconds later, they broke — into the hall where the hostages were lying on the floor trying to sleep. It was fully lit so that the guards could watch the captives. That also made it easier for the rescuers.

One of the terrorists realized what was happening and opened fire. He was killed instantly. Two others who had been on the opposite side rushed in, guns blazing.