Run With The Brave (10 page)

“Maybe, but I doubt it. I made a point of turning off to save the battery,” replied Hellmann, still shaking his head as he tuned in.

But all he got was a hiss and then the transmitter died. “Batteries fucked.”

“You saying someone tampered with it?”

“How the fuck do I know?” he spat, then calmer, “But, maybe you're right; I could've forgotten to turn it off.”

“Did you see or hear anything unusual?”

“Not a thing. Who the hell would do that anyway?”

Shiron looked thoughtful before barking, “Okay, Corporal, destroy that radio –
now
. Scatter the pieces; we don't want any followers finding it.”

“What about the Brit? He won't be happy.”

“Don't worry. I'll handle that.”

The corporal removed the power-pack, sheared off the terminals with a bayonet, and threw it deep into the undergrowth. Then, with the help of Shiron, quickly dismantled the framework and scattered pieces into the surrounding bush.

When finished, Shiron stood and strode over to where the others were huddled around Qatak.

“We should be moving out,” he said to Ryder, impatiently.

“Why? This man's in no fit state to move. He's just experienced a fucking major trauma, or haven't you noticed?”

“I would have thought that obvious, Frank. We wasted six Iranians less than a few days' march back. Another day here puts us at serious risk of being tracked down. Any competent commander would order searches in every direction within a ten to thirty mile radius of the hollow, particularly south now he knows our pattern.”

“We're not leaving until this man is ready to,” replied Ryder, angrily.

“If you don't want to leave; stay then. We'll go it alone.”

The Israeli turned and began to gather his belongings, ordering Hellmann to do the same.

“Please yourselves,” Ryder shot, pissed off at the Israelis; the Iranian needed rest after such an ordeal.

The three Americans exchanged urgent glances.

“You go; I'll stay until he can move,” said Afari, still propped up against the rock face. “We'll catch up.”

“Wait!” exclaimed Kellar. “Let me talk to him,” he glanced at the Iranian, “see what he wants.”

The American leant over Qatak, now conscious, and explained they had to move on. The Iranian, obviously in great discomfort, looked silently at him then, after several moments, said he was able to continue.

Kellar glanced up at both Ryder and Shiron, “One hour and we'll be ready to move.”

Shiron looked hard and long at Ryder and the three Americans before nodding in agreement, “One hour.”

Ryder wondered, under the circumstances, if the Americans wanted to continue; he looked at Kellar then at the other two. “Now these two are going it alone, you prepared to carry on?”

Silence for a moment then Kellar answered, “I'm staying.”

“Count me in,” said Sicano.

“And me,” said Brady.

“Okay, Sergeant, we're with you,” Ryder said to Shiron. “You want me to lead still?”

The Israeli nodded; white scar on his cheek showing strong through the stubble.

Decision made.
Onward we go.
“Where's the trani?” Ryder asked.
Time to find out where the pursuers are.

Hellmann glanced at Shiron.

Shiron answered, “Fucked – batteries dead. We broke it up and scattered in the bush.”

“That wasn't your call, Sergeant,” shot Ryder, angry the Israeli had not bothered to tell him before doing it. “We could've maybe nurtured a little more out of them.”

The Israeli shrugged.

Disappointed though he was, Ryder didn't want to push why this had happened after only a relatively short period of use. It was gone, nothing he said would bring it back; he had more pressing things to worry about. His thoughts turned to the woman. He was impressed by her loyalty. It took some guts to offer to stay in this harsh, hostile environment alone with this badly injured man. Would he have stayed if the circumstances had been reversed?

A cold wind lashed his body as he left the gully one hour later at the head of the file; a sense of foreboding washing through him at the thought of what the future might have in store.

It was early evening and the group, led by the Iranians, crested a low ridge and suddenly stopped in their tracks; below a shimmering stretch of blue-grey water lay before them.

“We are too far west,” said Fahed. “That's Lake Darbandikan. We have crossed into Iraq.”

Ryder shot a glance at the Israelis and Americans, then turned to the Iranian, “You sure? Why no border posts?”

“The border in these mountains is very blurred – hard to define,” he replied. “The remoteness allows our troops to freely enter Iraq to pursue us with impunity without worrying about border controls, as we have learnt to our detriment.”

“Easily get lost in this kinda terrain,” Kellar voiced.

For the last two days they had slogged up and down sparsely wooded slopes broken by small plateaus, avoiding clearings and keeping well to the scrub. In the distance jagged outcrops of rock, violet and grey, rose against dramatic backdrops of snow-covered slopes and black sheer rock faces of the high, barren peaks. The Zagros continued to fill the whole horizon for as far as the eye could see eastwards, falling gradually in a series of lesser peaks and brown hills down to the yellow plains beyond directly south and west.

“We have to get back,” said Shiron, anger in his voice. He looked at Ryder. “You don't have to.”

Ryder turned to the Americans. “You want to continue west; chance Iraq?”

“And al-Islam,” replied Sicano, looking intently at Ryder. “We agreed to help these guys.” He swivelled to the Israelis then back again. “But, your call, Frank,” he said, eyes boring into Ryder.

Ryder looked inquiringly at Brady and Kellar.

Brady responded first. “The choice has already been made. I'm staying.”

Followed quickly by Kellar, “Me too.”

He agreed; they had not come this far to turn back. Nodding towards the Israelis he said, “So be it. We head for Iran.”

With that he led the group down towards the lake.

Ryder wondered how they could have tracked back into Iraq; local area maps taken from the hijacked patrol did not go this far south so the GPS had proved little help. However, his geographic knowledge told him that the Iran border must be somewhere not far beyond this lake. They moved on down to lower ground along the western side where they sought cover amongst bush on a narrow plateau overlooking the water. Below, between themselves and the lake, a road ran north-south parallel with the shore.

Focusing binoculars, Ryder scanned the scattered trees on the slopes that met the shoreline and then swept along a tongue of land jutting out into the water, half a mile to the right. At the end of the tongue he could make out a jetty, alongside which lay two grey-painted vessels. He passed the glasses to Brady, “Gunboats?”

The American scanned the sleek grey vessels, and a few moments later turned to the Iranians, “Gunboats – on a lake?”

Fehed replied, “Iraq and Iran jointly patrol the lake. The Iraqis cover the most; the Iranians: the eastern arm.”

“Why?” shot Sicano.

“Keeping track of insurgents, but smugglers mainly – drugs, people. It is easier and quicker to transport large quantities of opium from Afghanistan and humans between Iraq and Iran by water than through the mountains. Both sides tend to be less than strict about policing. It's the insurgents the Iraqis are interested in; the Iranians: smugglers.”

“How near are we to the border?” Ryder asked.

“About eighteen miles down the eastern arm, over there.” Fehed pointed to a wide gap in the shoreline almost opposite. “The arm ends just outside the Iranian border. The main lake runs roughly north-south for about twenty miles; the average width of the arm is about two miles.”

“Can we reach the border without crossing the lake?” he pressed.

“Yes, but we will have to cross either the fast-flowing Diyala River about fifteen miles to the south, or go back the way we came and go over the top.”

Ryder indicated to the Israelis and Americans to follow him out of earshot. “We have to cross that stretch of water – hijack one of those boats; it's the quickest way into Iran.” To go back up and around the top of the lake, or cross another river, did not exactly appeal to him.

“I agree,” said Shiron, without hesitation. “We should ditch the Iranians here,” he added.

“We need them,” Ryder replied, quietly. “More equipment – ammo, weapons – can be carried by eleven. No telling what we'll need if we find what you're looking for.”

“What about the injured one?” Hellmann asked.

“A problem, but we'll manage. He's still good to handle an AK. We're not leaving him, if that's what you're thinking.” Ryder would rather put the man out of his misery than leave him to the mercy of the Iranians. “We stay here until dark before moving to the boats,” he concluded.

They returned to the huddled Iranians where Ryder quickly explained the plan. He moved to where Qatak lay, tended by Afari. He was concerned how she was managing. What they were experiencing was difficult even for people trained for this kind of thing; but she seemed to be coping. He could not help but admire her fortitude.

“You did well on the arm. Where did you learn?” he asked, curious.

“Father was a surgeon. I read his manuals.”

“You mean that was a first?” he said incredulously.

She nodded.

His admiration went up another notch.

“You said your parents were killed by the regime. What happened?”

She turned away, hand raised to her mouth. Several seconds later she swung back and levelled tear-filled eyes at Ryder then said bitterly, “Murdered by Pasdaran thugs – beaten to death.”

“Can you tell me the reason?”

She looked at him in a way that indicated she was unsure she should tell him and looked away again. He sensed she wanted to talk.

He waited and moments later she whispered, “Accused of plotting to assassinate a high ranker in the IRGC.”

He had briefly come across the Pasdaran in Tehran when setting up MI6 cells; they belonged to Iran's Islamic Revolutionary Guards Corps (IRGC) and were the custodians of its economy, its nuclear programme and for the protection and proliferation of the Islamic way of life. They were worse than the VEVAK when it came to brutality.

“And were they?” he asked gently.

“No, the IRGC wanted my father dead and they did not want a trial. The MEK found out that he and my mother were killed in America by Qod agents when attending a medical conference. The killing was made to look like a mugging so anyone in Iran could not be blamed,” she replied, on the verge of tears again. Then defiantly, “But I've had my revenge in a way and will continue to do so, God willing,” she finished.

Qod Force, Ryder knew, was the IRGC's overseas operations branch – Iran's equivalent to MI6.

“How did they treat you in prison?”

She looked at him blankly, raised hand to her mouth, stifling a cry, then turned away and proceeded to make Qatak comfortable.

He wondered if he had pushed her too far; better to leave it. He made to move away but she stopped him with a hand on one arm.

Without a word, she removed her heavy jacket and rolled up her shirtsleeves and trouser bottoms to reveal massive bruising to both her arms and legs. “You can imagine what the rest looks like; these were not caused by the earthquake… ” She stared out over the lake, then after a moment or two, said in almost a whisper, “I was abused in every way, but never gave them what they wanted.”

“For how long?” he asked, shocked at the extent of her bruising; it was worse than his own.

She then broke down and quietly sobbed.

He gently placed an arm around her and drew her towards him in an attempt to console but she pulled away, wiping the tears, “Several weeks… I would not have lasted another,” again a soft sob. “I was prepared to die. I prayed so much to die. Thank God for the earthquake. Thank God providence has given me another chance at revenge.”

She buried her head in her hands. He wanted to hold her, to comfort her but he could see she was distraught enough that no amount of consoling would help.

She turned back to Qatak and began to check his wound.

The conversation was over. Ryder understood and returned to the others.

Eventually twilight approached and they began to stir when Hellmann, on watch, suddenly shouted and pointed to the hills behind. In the fading light, less than 300 yards away amongst scrub and rock, a line of armed men descended towards them; how many could not be determined. Were they Iraqis, terrorists, Iranians? Ryder was not about to hang around to find out.

“MOVE! MOVE!” he shouted, grabbing weapon and gear.

Instantly, everyone swept up rifles and packs and scrambled frantically down the slope towards the lake as bullets began whining and ricocheting all around them.

Halfway down, Ryder feared the attackers were too close and, together with the Americans and Israelis, turned and fired rapidly forcing the pursuers to dive for cover giving the others time to widen the gap. From behind his rock cover he guessed, from the extent and source of the return firing, that probably only several were in pursuit.

Looking to see the Iranians were well down the slope, he ordered a retreat continuing to spray lead into the darkened ground above. Once they were clear he hoped to get some distance before the pursuers realised they had bolted. Finally at the bottom of the slope they breathlessly regrouped amongst the bush and trees.

Regaining his breath, Ryder ordered, “You five,” he pointed at the three Americans and the two Israelis, “stay here and fight a rear guard. I've had experience with gunboats; I'll race ahead and hopefully get one of those boats ready to go.”

“We'll all be in deep shit if you don't,” shot Sicano.

Ryder ignored the American and turned to Afari and the other four Iranians. “You all come with me – move!”

Reaching the jetty they raced along the 200-foot long timber structure out towards the boats silhouetted at the end against the silvery gleam of the moon-bathed waters. Ryder selected the boat to the left and prayed it had enough fuel to get across the lake. They all leapt aboard, Qatak helped by Afari.

Whilst the others scrambled about the boat, Ryder headed straight for the bridge where he hurriedly checked the instruments, relieved to see the fuel gauge reading half full. Although the gunboat was old and Russian, it was in surprisingly good condition and he was confident he could handle her.

Tariq entered the cabin, diverted Ryder's attention away from the instruments, and pointed out towards the darkened horizon. In the distance, skimming over the water, he saw two powerful gunboats converging towards the jetty almost 100 yards apart on the port side. His heart sank; they had to get away soon or be blown out of the water.

Qatak had seen the two approaching vessels, too. Reaching for the nearest machine pistol with his good arm, he rushed to the side of the gunboat, jumped the short distance down to the jetty, and ran back towards the land.

In the bush and rock where the jetty met land, the rear guard kept the pursuers at bay. Qatak joined them and screamed for all to make for the boat; he would give cover.

Brady refused, until in desperation, the little Iranian tore away the folds from his arm and thrust the stump into the American's face.

Brady winced, the elbow joint was raw and bloody, puss oozing from the burnt, rotting flesh.

He looked at Qatak's pleading eyes, glanced at the others blasting away into the surrounding trees and without wasting another moment handed the Iranian his last magazine, telling the others to do the same. Then he, Sicano, Kellar and the two Israelis broke cover and ran as fast as their legs would carry them, zigzagging along the jetty towards the boats.

Reaching the gunboat breathless, but in one piece, the five men scrambled on board as bullets began to ricochet off the superstructure. Shadowy figures began to emerge from the darkness and run along the jetty. The Iranian had held them off just long enough and no doubt paid the ultimate price.

Brady quickly joined Ryder on the bridge as he opened the throttle; the throaty roar of the 2000 bhp diesels drowning out everything else.

“Hope you know how to drive this fucking baby?” shouted the American over the noise as they surged away from the jetty.

Ryder ignored him, concentrating on keeping the boat steady and watching the oncoming crafts. No point and no time to tell the American he'd had some experience of this type of craft training with the SBS (Special Boat Services).

In the meantime, Sicano and Kellar in the stern, reached for grenades, pulled the pins and hurled them as hard as they could at the other quickly receding moored vessel. Seconds later, one exploded on the bridge and the other ripped up the end of the jetty.

The stubby grey gunboat, visually similar to the classic Second World War British Royal Navy Vosper, but without torpedo tubes or depth charges, skimmed out over the darkening waters at twenty-five knots straight towards the lake's eastern arm leading to the Iranian border. Mounted in front of the bridge, a pair of 20mm cannons pointed towards the night sky, and on the stern, a 75mm gun sat squat and menacing behind its metal shield. Attached to the starboard side of the bridge an inflatable rubber raft, protected by a metal casing, banged hard against the superstructure to the bouncing rhythm of the powerful launch.

Brady, beside Ryder, trained glasses on the fast approaching identical gunboats bearing down on the port bow, powerful searchlights skimming the waters. A minute or two more and they would be in range of the guns on the pursuing craft and could expect the first salvos.

Sicano frantically checked out the cannon situated in the bow and fed in an ammunition belt whilst Kellar hurriedly primed and loaded the gun in the stern. In the small forward cabin, under the bridge, the rest of the men, except Hellmann tending the engines, searched for food and anything else that could be of use.