Run With The Brave (2 page)

All nodded and followed him to the side escape-hatch.

He watched the crew bail out then waited for his team to jump, one by one, before he too leapt out of the doomed aircraft.

With Yoman and the other commandos close together in a fairly tight formation, wind tearing at their bodies, the rapidly changing digits on his wrist altimeter told him he was now at 8,000 feet and dropping faster than anticipated. He worried too that the wind velocity and thermals at this point were in a strong easterly direction as predicted, taking them not towards the Arabian coastline, but into Iranian territory as feared. No matter how much he tried to change direction the mottled browns and yellows of the Iranian coastal plains loomed large below. An explosion to the south told him the aircraft had finally hit the ground.

The crew of the ill-fated aircraft, using standard-issue parachutes, dropped almost vertically, rapidly descending at various rates in the fading light, spread over a distance of almost a mile.

At 1,500 feet, Yoman watched vehicles producing plumes of dust track his flight path while he fought unsuccessfully to maintain horizontal flight. As the ground came fast towards him, he searched for a place to land offering some form of cover. Everywhere was almost flat except for a few low-lying sandstone outcrops and dunes. Closer to the ground, he saw the dark, snaking line of a narrow wadi running parallel with the base of a string of linked outcrops. Without hesitation he tugged at the guides, followed by the others, and all dropped quickly towards the wadi gouged out by centuries of wind and rain.

At 1,000 feet he looked on helplessly as the two military vehicles closed in towards the wadi. Minutes later he landed in the dry bed, quickly shed his parachute harness and desperately searched for cover. Within seconds, to his left and right, no more than twenty yards apart, the other members of Unit 269 landed and did the same in the sparse terrain that was flat, littered with small rocks that offered little cover, together with sporadic clusters of boulders that did provide some semblance of protection. They scrambled for the nearest cluster against the base of the wadi wall just as the first of the two trailing vehicles came to a halt on the edge of the opposite side.

Heavily armed troops spilled from the rear and began to spread. It looked hopeless but the captain was not prepared to surrender without a fight.

“Fan out, make every shot count,” he urged the others, each carrying a P226 pistol with a 15-round magazine giving a total of 120 rounds between them.

With backs to the jagged wadi wall 10 to 15 feet high, Yoman and his team spread themselves no more than several yards apart in a rough curve. Each man had chosen a boulder large enough to give a modicum of cover. None spoke nor moved once settled, waiting, pistols cocked and ready, for the onslaught to begin. The wadi at this point was some forty yards wide.

The second truck arrived and discharged more troops who, together with the squad from the first, scrambled down into the wadi and began to zigzag towards the Israelis' position.

Yoman steeled himself, estimating twenty to thirty heavily armed men now homing in, edging closer from all angles across the dusty wadi-bed using whatever cover available; shadows only in the twilight haze.

The Iranians opened fire first, spraying bursts of metal into the bank behind, sending sandstone and slivers of rock showering down on the commando's positions.

During the intense firefight that ensued, Yoman, on the outer stretch of the curve, caught a sudden movement to his left, swivelled, and as he rolled to another boulder close by, gunned down two soldiers in rapid succession about to shoot from close range. He picked off several more under a hail of bullets but it became increasingly difficult to line up a target the closer they came and the more accurate their machine-gun volleys became. Now with only a few rounds left and nowhere to go, he knew it was only a matter of time before they would be overrun.

Suddenly, an ear-shattering explosion followed by an agonised cry.

Yoman looked to his right and saw Sergeant Moshe Soch writhing on the ground, right arm shredded to the bone and left leg severed at the knee; the bastards were using grenades! With blood gushing from his wounds, the burly sergeant struggled up, retrieved his pistol, and continued to fire until the magazine emptied before he died, bullets churning the ground around him. He then saw Corporal Abir Yaakov at the other end of the curve. Under intense attack, the corporal broke cover, firing wildly at the oncoming shadows, downing three as he stumbled erratically over the short distance towards a boulder that looked to give better cover. He never made it, reaching only halfway before he was almost cut in two by a fusillade of lead smashing his broken body against the wadi wall.

Yoman, in despair, kept blasting away until he heard the click of the firing pin against an empty chamber. He could do nothing now but await the outcome; either to be killed or taken prisoner. With the ammunition of the five other surviving commandos expended too, return firing finally ceased.

For several seconds an eerie silence hung over the wadi, Yoman remained still, looking straight ahead, waiting to be mown down at any moment. ‘Abyss' had been an omen after all; they were now about to face the void. Slowly, one by one, the Iranian troops emerged from hiding and edged menacingly forward in the semi-darkness, weapons cocked. When they reached the Israelis, now standing in line, a stocky little man in battle fatigues stepped forward from the pack in front of Yoman and barked in Farsi, “Which one of you is in charge?”

“I am,” the captain answered.

In one swift movement the Iranian rammed the butt of his rifle into Yoman's stomach. “That is for my men you have just killed,” he snarled as Yoman collapsed, reeling with the pain; another blow, this time to the head, and the last thing he remembered were the cries of the others as they suffered the same fate.

Bound hand and foot, the Israeli commandos were dragged unconscious to the nearest truck, thrown in and driven to an Iranian base. Operation Abyss had ended before it had really begun.

Ryder's heart missed a beat.

Out in the centre of the ring the lithe figure of the young matador, resplendent in silver and blue, high cheekboned and displaying all the arrogance of his gypsy heritage, took up position, unfurled the small red cape and walked to within ten yards of where the powerful black bull stood. He stopped, raised the sword in his right hand and proffered the cape with his left.

Under an autumn afternoon sun bathing Seville's Plaza de Toros de la Maestranza the sound of a rousing pasodoble competed with a 12,000 noisy crowd chanting: “
Tor-re-ro! Tor-re-ro! Tor-re-ro!”

“What's he doing?” Ryder's companion screamed above the clamour.

Ryder couldn't believe what he was seeing;
the boy has balls
. “Not now, Sarah. Not now.”

But she persisted.

In a taut voice he gave in, “He's going to kill
recibiendo,
the oldest and most dangerous method of dispatch – unbelievable!”

“For Christ's sake, Frank; what the hell does that mean?”

“Enticing the bull to charge from a distance; when it reaches him he'll hopefully guide it past with the cape, letting it run onto the sword high between the shoulders. If the bull raises its head at the very last moment, a horn will undoubtedly nail him in the chest.”

“Oh my God; that could kill him!” she shouted amidst the clamour, equally fascinated and repelled by this ballet of death.

“He knows what he's doing, don't worry.” But he couldn't help thinking:
he could well do that!
The moment of truth had arrived.

The music stopped. The crowd hushed. The bull pawed at the ground and snorted. The matador drew himself up, sighting along the sword then flicked the cape, “
Toro
,
ha
;
Toro, ha.
”

The animal sprang forward. The man waited, feet firmly planted in the sand.

Seconds later he and the bull merged as one; the sword flashed in the sunlight, entered the bloodied shoulders and sunk deep up to the hilt. The lowered head and massive body followed the red cloth out to the right, its momentum carrying it well beyond the man, staggering, coughing; blood gushing from an open mouth before plunging to its knees and rolling lifelessly on the sand.

The plaza erupted.

“
Ole! Ole!
” Ryder shouted, jumping to his feet, caught up in the euphoria around him. For Sarah it was over all too quickly; the skill shown by the man had been but a blur. To Ryder, and to most of those packed in the arena, the animal had been dispatched with grace and with skill.

“Did you see that? Did you see that?” Sarah gushed amidst all the applause, holding hand to her mouth, “So quick… so horrible; yet so beautiful.” The closeness of such a primitive, violent act gave her a vicarious thrill more than she cared to admit. Ryder ignored her, absorbed in his own emotions. He could not help feeling respect for this boy who had just stared death in the face. He did not consider himself an aficionado but he definitely related to the emotion it generated, understanding the technical and ritual aspects which led up to the death of the bull. Only in this life and death struggle could the most primitive and intense emotions be experienced both by the matador and by those watching. The whole thing appealed to his inherent sense of survival and to his own deep primitive instincts.

Unscathed, the matador, glittering, turned and smiled broadly up at the frenzied crowd in a sea of white handkerchiefs. Arms raised, he walked towards the barrier and began a triumphant tour of the ring to the roar engulfing the plaza. Sombreros, cushions, cigars and flowers rained down onto the sand; the bull's ears, tail and a hoof were awarded by the bullring president. When he had completed a full circuit a trumpet sounded, the ring cleared and the last bull of the afternoon trotted out into the arena.

To Ryder, this beautiful Moorish-style ring with its arched colonnades, whitewashed walls and yellow ochre trim, the spiritual home of Spanish bullfighting, provided the perfect setting for the deadly encounter between man and beast. Sitting in the shade, second row up from the passageway between the ring and the stands, they were close enough to feel the vibrant energy and smell the action on the sand below. Ryder was pleased to see that Sarah was holding up well to the violent nature of the spectacle, considering she had never been to a bullfight before.

The sleek brown beast with wide horns stopped, raised its huge head and sniffed at the air, great neck-muscle raised and taut. It then ambled around the perimeter, shying away when challenged by the peons stepping out from behind the barrier. To Ryder this was not a good sign; it seemed this bull did not want to fight. He glanced at the programme. The bull, ‘Insurrecto' –‘Rebel' in English (aptly named he thought) – was a five-year-old from the ranch of Miura and weighed 1,200 pounds. He understood enough to know it was unusual for Miuras to lack bravery; they were feared by most matadors, referred to as ‘the bulls of death'.

“I'm no Hemingway,” Sarah cried, “but that bull looks as if he's not interested.”

Ryder looked at her in surprise. “You've heard of Hemingway?”

“You think I'm a dummy, Frank? You could say I'm widely read.” She gave him a cheeky grin.

“You're right. He's what those in the know call a ‘Manso' – tame and cowardly.”

One of the matador's peons attempted to cape the animal but it stood its ground and bellowed. He tried again. The bull shied away and galloped towards the opposite side of the arena, turned and ran back again, this time at great speed. Then just before it looked as if it was going to crash into the barrier the inconceivable happened: the huge beast leapt at the 5-foot-high structure, reached the top easily and used the solid timber framework to launch itself with hind legs across the passageway and up into the stands scrambling awkwardly over the low steel cable railing before spilling onto the concrete terracing not far from where Ryder sat.

Sheer panic gripped the spectators in that section as ‘Insurrecto' found his feet and ran amok along the tiered seating. The crowd scattered; some jumping down into the ring, others clambering upwards. The animal cut a swathe through the mass of bodies surging upwards and sidewards trying desperately to avoid the slashing, hacking horns. Many fell in the crush, trampled as they lay helplessly in the path of the beast. Ryder, caught in the wave of humanity, tried to protect himself and a terrified Sarah, punching and kicking those who attempted to overwhelm as the panic-stricken throng fought to get away. Before he knew it the bull was only yards away; a young woman was struck in the thigh and swung helplessly from one horn. Everything happened so fast. The matadors and peons had only just now begun to climb up from the ring below waving capes to distract the enraged animal which seemed determined to continue its rampage. Casting the unfortunate woman on the horn aside, blood gushing from her leg, the animal charged straight at Ryder along the narrow concrete terrace dividing the
Barreras
and
tendido
seating.

He did not hesitate. Grabbing Sarah's large canvas bag, he threw it hard at the on-coming beast to distract it. The straps caught the right horn and the bag swung down over the bull's eyes, blinding it momentarily, halting the charge. In those vital few seconds, Ryder jumped up to the next tier, dodged the slashing horns, and hurled his 6-foot solid frame against the animal's flank, catching the bull off balance and sending it crashing sidewards down to the first row. He narrowly missed the thrashing hoofs as it keeled over with him all but entwined between its legs and then unbelievably again as the beast struggled to regain its feet. Desperately he tried to roll away but was slammed against the step; it's bulk squeezing him hard against the concrete surface. He thought he was about to die.

Suddenly a peon rushed forward, jumped on the animal's back and thrust a knife expertly into Insurrecto's neck, severing the spinal cord, killing the beast instantly.

Ryder struggled to push the bull away, kicking madly at underbelly, genitals, anywhere to keep those deadly hoofs at bay and somehow managing to avoid the nerve-driven flaying legs. Finally, after what seemed a lifetime, its death throes ended and he scrambled to his feet, shaken and bruised, thankful no bones had been broken and grateful to still be alive.

Mobbed by the jubilant crowd, strong hands swept him off his feet, hoisting him high on the shoulders of two swarthy Spaniards who carried him in triumph along the concrete tier, attempting to get him down into the ring for a victory circuit. Once down in the passageway between the ring and the stands, he was besieged by journalists bombarding him from every direction.

“
Eso fue algo muy valiente. Que te hizo hacerto?”
shot one overly excited young man, pushing a microphone into his face.

Then another from a gaunt oldie: “
Arriesgando su vida de esa manero salvo a muchos. Como te sienties?
”

“
Estaba usted no tiene miedo?”
This time a young woman from the
Diario de Seville
.

How the hell did he know what made him do it, or how he felt at the time; he knew he was risking his life… Yes, he was afraid!

The questions kept coming, but he pretended not to understand, shaking his head and shouting, “No speak Spanish… No understand.”

It was frenzied; he had to get away.

Pushing his way through the throng and flashing cameras with difficulty, he eventually managed to leave the plaza with Sarah in tow and hailed a cab to return to his hotel, eventually losing those journos who had attempted to follow. On arrival he made straight for his room, removed bloodstained clothes, showered, and put on fresh jeans, shirt and trainers before heading back down to the hotel bar where Sarah patiently waited. He ordered a pint of lager, another gin for Sarah, and they both went out to a table on the terrace.

“Brave thing you did back there, Frank,” she said, sipping her drink and looking at him softly, big hazel eyes conveying concern, hair bleached by the sun falling seductively across her tanned features. “You could've been seriously injured – killed even. Those horns were lethal.”

He liked Sarah, especially when she looked at him that way. From the moment they met at his local, The Prince Albert, only a week back, he'd taken to her. She was fun to be with, looked good and had an easy manner. Glad she had agreed to join him on this trip, he was looking forward to the next few days shopping, sightseeing and attending more bullfights with her – amongst other delights.

He shrugged.

“Seriously; it might have killed you,” she finished, concern melting away.

“Does that mean I get a reward for still being alive?” A grin creased his angular, swarthy features; alert brown eyes glinting under a shock of dark, wavy hair.

A saucy look crossed her face. “Hey, hero, don't get your hopes up. Keep doing stupid things like you just did and one day you could run outta luck.”

With adrenaline still pumping he glanced at the long tanned legs folded opposite him. Suddenly he felt the urge to take her to his room.

She threw him a knowing look. “You married, Frank?”

That was a kick; bringing him swiftly back to earth, “Divorced.”

“Oh, really,” she seemed a little surprised, “How long?”

“Ten years. She didn't like army life.” Instantly he regretted saying that. The less people knew of his army connection the better.

“Sorry to hear – kids?”

“No,” he shot back; adrenaline dissipating. The break-up had been traumatic. He'd tried to make his marriage work but barrack life and youthful expectations got in the way.

“So, you're in the army; guessed you might be.”

“Was…” a short pause, then inquisitiveness took over, “What makes you think that?”

“Not sure really, just something about you: precise, authoritative – well-toned, and the way you handled that bull – wow!” she gave him a wicked grin. “You're quite a mystery, Frank,” she paused to sip her drink, “Anyway, if you're not in the army, what do you do to pay the rent?”

“Government courier.”

She looked at him sideways.

Definitely time to move on.
“You married?”

She didn't answer straight away and reached into her bag. “Like a smoke, Frankie?”

“You smoke?” He was surprised, then, “No thanks. I've given up.”

“Don't normally, but I need a special now – want one?”

“Special?”
Whoa!
Who is this lady?
He looked at her in astonishment.
Who would've thought?
He'd not indulged in a joint for over a year but felt tempted after today's escapade. “What you got?”

“Dro,” she smiled.

Hydroponics stuff, normally good he had to admit.
One wouldn't hurt – would it?

“Pass, but you go ahead,” he replied with a half-smile, softening boyish looks that conveyed a Mediterranean heritage, although both parents had been born in London from Irish and West Country stock.

She lit a pre-rolled and took a long, hard pull. “To answer your question, Frank: no, I'm not and don't have anyone special either – do you?”

“No,” he replied firmly, savouring the smell of the weed with the feeling coming back to get her upstairs.

“Love the bike, great colour. What is it?” she asked, changing the subject, recalling the pillion ride he'd given her when they first met.

“You mean the colour, or the bike?”

“Both,” she shot back with an impish grin. “Very impressive, I have to say.”

“Harley Fat Boy is the name; ‘Indigo' is the colour,” he mimicked the song. The bike was his pride and joy. The roar of the 1584cc, twin cam, 96B engine at full throttle with the wind in his face, gave him a priceless feeling of freedom and excitement.