Two brilliant streaks of flame flashed like meteors, and then Raymond felt his body lighten as the ejection seat separated. At such low altitude the parachute deployed instantly with no delay.
A dazzling canopy of silk blossomed in the sky, drifting down, but Raymond had no heart to admire the view—he knew the greatest trouble of his life was about to begin.
Compared with the comrades already dead, he was lucky—he was still alive. How long that would last, only heaven knew.
He was deep inside Iraq, near the heavily guarded nuclear reactor. Rescue helicopters stood ready, yet flying in from the Israeli–Jordanian border to pull him out was impossible; he could rely only on himself to get back to Israel.
If he were caught, the best option would be to end it on the spot; with the hatred Arabs bore him, living would be worse than death.
Torn by doubt, Raymond reached the ground. A stroke of luck: the wind had carried him several kilometres from the reactor.
Following training, he kept his legs together, bent them on impact, rolled, and completed the landing sequence.
A parachute landing is never as easy as it looks; poor technique can snap bones or kill outright. Raymond did not fear death, but he wanted to keep his body useful for the fight to build a Greater Jewish State.
Once down he cut the shroud lines with his knife and sprinted west. Beyond the woods lay a stream, then a village. After nightfall he would steal a car and race out of the danger zone.
"Operation Babylon is aborted; all aircraft return to base."
Furious, Bahari dived and sprayed the hidden anti-aircraft guns with cannon fire, shredding several gunners before his rage cooled.
On the radar, a dozen blips appeared—fighters scrambled from an Iraqi airfield and were racing toward them.
With superior jets and missiles Bahari did not fear the outdated MiGs, yet further combat was pointless. The raid had failed; his task now was to bring the rest of his squadron home. Fuel was low—linger too long and they would all be stranded.
Calm again, Bahari ordered the squadron to turn back.
Yiftah's vision brightened; a split-second's delay on the stick and he would have died. Glancing sideways he saw a white parachute canopy blossoming in the sky.
Raymond! Yiftah knew that canopy had to be him—he had gone down.
Below, the reactor was already wreathed in black smoke.
"Operation Babylon is aborted; all aircraft return to base." Hearing the order, Yiftah abandoned any bomb-damage check, banked west and prepared to follow the f－15s home.
MiGs were closing behind him. Though his fighter outclassed them, he had only two Sidewinders left; if surrounded he would be easy prey.
As for Raymond on the ground—he could only wish him luck.
"Flight, break high; steer 270, depart low and fast," Bahari commanded coolly.
Within minutes at least three or four radar beams had swept his aircraft. To dodge Iraqi SAMs he ordered an immediate descent to low level.
The earth's curve would hide them from radars; once clear of Baghdad the air defences thinned. Yet low-level flight burned fuel fast. After crossing into Saudi Arabia they would have to climb, but there other Israeli fighters could shield them and the danger would drop sharply.
Despite the shock, these elite pilots collected themselves, formed up, and roared west at treetop height.
Yiftach's single-engine F-16 lagged a dozen kilometres behind the twin-engine F-15 formation.
He rammed the throttle into afterburner; thrust surged, a white cone of mist flashed ahead, and the fighter punched through the sound barrier into supersonic flight.
An F-16 accelerates slower than an F-15. Alone in hostile Iraqi skies with only two short-range Sidewinders, he needed to rejoin the pack as fast as possible.
Supersonic flight at low altitude is normally banned—it hammers the ground with thunderous sonic booms—but Yiftach could not care less, especially with Iraqis below.
With the burner on, fuel vanished at a frightening rate. As the f－15s came within sight he cut the afterburner again.
"Chisel Four, fuel critical; Chisel Four, fuel critical." A glance at the gauges told him he would never reach Israel—he would go down in Saudi Arabia or Jordan.
Bahari heard him over the radio. Chisel Four was Yiftach's call-sign; although Bahari led the formation, Yiftach outranked him. Of the eight f－16s that had set out, only this one remained; Bahari would not let it be lost for want of fuel.
These f－15s were meant to escort the bomber group home, and now only one is left—he has to bring it back. They're already over Al-Anbar Province, where air defenses are thin; another ten minutes and they'll be out of Iraqi airspace. The interceptors that just took off are probably still a hundred kilometres behind; by the time they catch up, the F-15 will be gone.
Bahari made up his mind. "Formation, altitude ten thousand, speed four hundred, heading two-seven-zero."
Yiftach watched the lone F-15 slide out of sight, then hauled the stick back, nose climbing into the sky.
The moment they dropped low, the red lamp of the radar-warning receiver blazed on Yiftach's panel and the onboard computer snapped in his headset: "You are locked, you are locked."
Bahari's voice came through: "Jamming pods on—everyone break right, shake the lock."
Four MiG-25s—mantis stalking the cicada while the oriole waited behind. Their leader was Iraq's prodigy pilot, "sky falcon" Reyer.
The MiG-25s had arrived from the Soviet Union only in the spring of 1980. A high-altitude interceptor built by the Mikoyan bureau, it was the first fighter in the world to exceed Mach 3. NATO called it "Foxbat".
To survive the heat of such speed, the airframe abandoned aluminium for stainless steel. In interception, that velocity was decisive; behind them, MiG-21s and MiG-23s were still lumbering forward.
Yet the avionics were archaic, stuffed with vacuum tubes. The huge radar could neither look down nor shoot down; legend said it could roast a rabbit at three hundred metres. Range was a hundred kilometres, but resolution was poor—against a low target, ground clutter turned the scope to snow.
So Reyer hung back, and without an AWACS Bahari never noticed the uninvited guests that latched on within minutes.
Seeing the Israelis pull up from the deck, Reyer grinned. "Radar on—lock them now."
Each MiG-25 carried two R-40R semi-active radar missiles, two R-40T infrared homers, and two short-range R60s. Though the R-40s were meant for lumbering bombers, Reyer wasn't about to waste the chance; he ordered a medium-range salvo.
Bahari's dilemma was ugly: turn and fight, and the rest of the Iraqi Air Force would shred them; keep running, and they'd be shot in the back. Taking punishment without hitting back was not the Israeli way.
A shrill warble—missiles in the air!
"Jamming pods on—formation right, break the lock!" Bahari had no time for anything else.
The formation snapped right, pumping out interference; the twin-seat f－15s flicked switches and the under-wing pods came alive.
If a jet's heading matched the radar beam, the lock vanished and the outbound missiles, losing guidance, would self-destruct.
It didn't work—the missiles kept coming.
The jamming pods put out less than half the power of the MiG-25's own radar; the turn had failed to break lock.
In desperation Bahari improvised: back to the deck.
"All flights—dive, now!"
Soviet electronics were infamous; otherwise why had the Iraqis not locked them while they were low, only when they climbed? They had to return to the ground clutter.
It was a gamble. If it failed they'd surrender their height and be easy prey for the MiG-21s, kings of low-level dogfights.
The blips on Reyer's screen vanished; he wanted to smash the CRT with his gloved fist—two more seconds and the missiles would have gone autonomous.
Semi-active missiles need the launch aircraft's radar for two-thirds of their flight; without that paint, they went blind and missed.
First salvo—no kills.
The Israelis were down in the dirt, where the MiG-25 was a fish out of water. Reyer throttled back and waited for them to reappear; otherwise the slower MiG-21s and MiG-23s would have to finish it.