Run With The Brave (25 page)

The port town of Bandar Abbas was the main commercial maritime outlet for much of southern Iran, and also a major base and headquarters of the Iranian Navy. It was also one of the most important strategic centres in the Persian Gulf and Sea of Oman. Once a British outpost, the old fishing town was sold off to various Arab potentates from 1740 and subsequently controlled by Muscat until 1868 when the town with its sprawling streets, alleyways and bazaars reverted back to Persian rule. From a population of 17,000 in 1955 it now had almost half a million occupants commensurate with a major commercial port city. After leaving the rail yard situated just north of the base, Ryder and Afari spent half the night hiding in scrub on the outskirts of a small residential area, and the other half weaving their way through almost deserted suburban streets until they found themselves outside the naval base on Suru Spit, two miles west of the city centre. Ryder, from his recollection of the city on a short visit several years ago, concluded that the two small commercial harbours on the highly exposed central waterfront were too far away to make an attempt at hijacking a dhow or maybe a small launch, especially in Afari's condition. To make their way through such a densely populated area to the harbours certainly did not appeal. The base seemed a better option, despite the added risk, but it was close and he was more likely to find a suitable craft to take them fast across the Strait. If the base was too well guarded then they would have no alternative but to take the waterfront option.

From a hideaway in scrub on the south-eastern perimeter of the base, he scanned the complex through binoculars, noting empty dry docks, clusters of administration and storage buildings, together with several naval craft moored in the eastern arm. However, what interested him most were three coastal patrol boats moored at the extended quayside almost directly across from where they hid. To get at them they would need to cover more than seventy yards of open ground, scale a high wire-mesh perimeter fence and then cover a further fifty yards of open ground to sheds on the quayside. To move swiftly and hope to avoid any guards that may be patrolling the immediate area would be paramount. Ryder worried the exertion needed might be too much for Afari.

“One of those boats would get us across,” he handed her the glasses and she scanned the quay. “It won't be easy getting to them; will you be up to it?”

“I have come this far; I'm not giving up now when so close.” She handed back the glasses. “I can make it, but if you think I'll hold you up, then you go; I'll find some other way out.”

Even though he could see she was in pain, what choice really did he have? No way was he going to leave her here. “Okay, we'll go,” he replied then scanned the perimeter again. The 8-foot-high fence topped with strands of razor-wire looked new and without mesh cutters would be impossible to penetrate. He moved glasses along the perimeter line and stopped where the fence joined a short run of brick wall to the right of their position. The wall was the same height as the fence and had glass shards bedded in mortar along the top. Where the two met, he could see what looked to be a temporary connection. He turned to Afari, “Maybe we won't have to climb that fence; looks like repair work is under way to the brick wall where it joins the fence. Could be a weak point and we might just be able to pull the mesh away and squeeze through.”

“That fence and wall is very exposed.”

“We'll wait for nightfall before making the attempt. In the meantime, get some sleep.” He hoped a few hours rest would build up her strength; she'd need it to cope with the ordeal.

The day passed quietly. Ryder spent the time, in between naps, surveying with binoculars every part of the inner basin and in particular the harbour, its entrance, and the outer bulwarks. He also covered the perimeter road they were to cross and felt concern at the frequency of armed vehicle patrols passing, hoping there would be fewer when darkness fell. He did not see any movement around the patrol boats, but that didn't mean they would not be guarded at night. Afari, come nightfall, had improved and said she was good to go. Looking at her drawn features and pallor, he wondered, but could see the determination in her eyes.

Patchy, low cloud scudded across the sky and patrols had become less frequent. They prepared to move out. Ryder decided to discard all equipment and weapons, except for knives. No point now in carrying anything that might hamper the dash for the boats. Should they fail, there would be no going back now anyway. They waited for a patrol vehicle to pass, made sure no one else was in sight, and crossed the road to the open ground. Slinking into the shadow of the wall, he was relieved to see that the temporary connection had been poorly done and began to chip away with a knife at the mortar between the bricks. Within minutes he had freed the metal fence anchor and pulled back sufficient mesh to allow them to pass. Sliding into the gap, adrenaline increasing, he helped Afari through and replaced the mesh. Then, without hesitating, they both scampered across the open ground, Ryder expecting searchlights any moment to illuminate their run and bullets to rip all around. Afari stumbled twice but rallied quickly with his help and eventually they reached the main building alongside the quay. Breathless, backs clinging to plastered walls, they skirted the structure in the shadows and arrived twenty yards from the quayside opposite the patrol boats riding high on an incoming tide.

Ryder eyed the nearest patrol boat, a 40-foot-long, sleek vessel, tugging gently at its stays and appearing to be unmanned. Festooned with radar equipment, a dim red glow emitting from the central control cabin and he could just make out the profile of a 20mm deck-gun aft. This was their ticket out and he prayed the tanks were sufficiently fuelled to get them over the Strait.

The extended quay seemed deserted, but on the other side of the harbour basin, activity could be seen. Ryder hesitated before heading for the short bridge leading to the outer quay structure and the moored boats.

Suddenly, a guard stepped out onto the inner quay from the shadows between the buildings to his right and began to patrol the area in front of the building where they hid. He'd been lucky; had he moved a second sooner… Both drew sharply back into the shadows; no way now could they reach the vessels without being seen.

Should he wait to see if the guard moved on or eliminate him? He chose the latter; it was too risky to wait. Indicating for Afari to remain concealed, he slipped away behind the building until he was in the same position from where the guard had first emerged.

The guard turned at the bridge structure. Ryder unsheathed his knife and waited. The kill had to be swift and silent. He steeled himself.

The guard reached the corner of the building.

Ryder made his move, covering the short distance silently and fast. Grabbing the unsuspecting man from behind, clasping one hand over his mouth, he plunged the knife deep into his heart, killing him without a sound. Hurriedly he dragged the body back into the shadows and returned to Afari.

Making sure all was clear they crossed the short bridge which led to the outer quay. Here he helped Afari up the gangway of the nearest craft and made her as comfortable as he could in the central control cabin. After checking the instruments, relieved they were similar to the boat taken when fleeing Iraq, he checked the fuel gauges and was more than disappointed to see the tanks were less than half full – would it be enough to get them over the Strait? Instantly he thought about checking the other two boats but gave that away – no time; it would have to do. He then went down to the engine room, found it clear and headed fore and aft to sever the mooring ropes. Back in the cabin he checked the control instruments once more and pressed the starter. The throaty roar of the diesels filled the cabin, the deck shuddered beneath his feet and slowly he opened the throttle. The craft pulled away from the quay, heading towards the green lights marking the entrance to the harbour. At that point he allowed himself to believe they might make it after all and he turned on the navigational lights; everything had to appear normal as he passed through the inner basin.

Two hundred yards out, he steered carefully between other moored vessels, veered a few degrees to port, and began the short approach to the harbour entrance. In only a matter of minutes they would clear the basin, pass through the bulwarks, and would soon be out into the open sea.

Suddenly, a voice from the radio startled Ryder, requesting identification and destination. Should he reply? He decided to chance it, if only to gain time. He gave the number of the craft and told the voice in Farsi his orders were to patrol moored cargo ships out in the bay.

The voice came again, only this time it requested the name of the captain and confirmation of the orders. From the tone Ryder knew immediately he had made a mistake. The voice came again, ordering him to return to the quay. There was nothing for it now, but to dash full speed for the open sea.

Alarm klaxons blared on land. He turned to look at the quay where the other two patrol boats were moored, now illuminated, and saw sailors running along the quay towards the vessels. With navigational lights now extinguished and throttle fully opened at a maximum speed of thirty-five knots, he swept past the harbour entrance, through the outer bulwarks and breakwaters and on into the open sea. Heading the boat at the gap between the large island of Qeshm on starboard and the smaller islands of Hormuz and Larak to port, Ryder knew, once beyond these islands, he would be in international waters amongst the busy shipping lanes of the Hormuz Strait. If they could make it more than halfway towards Oman's Musandam Peninsular on the other side they would be in sovereign waters and safe. Even with half-empty tanks, he dared to hope again that they might just beat the odds, but quickly changed his mind when 20mm cannon shells from two pursuing Iranian patrol boats churned the sea in his wake.

While he fought to keep the patrol boat one step ahead of the pursuers, Afari tried desperately to raise help on the radio transmitter following Ryder's instructions to continuously repeat in Hebrew the code-word ‘Abyss' and the mountain co-ordinates in a forlorn hope the Israeli warship Shiron had referred to may still be in the vicinity.

The trio of boats raced past the islands and were soon out into the Strait and choppy water. To avoid the cannon onslaught, Ryder swerved the craft in a zigzag pattern across the silvery expanse, but the pursuing boats slowly gained and began to inflict serious punishment, peppering the superstructure with bullets and tracer streams. Not only had he to worry about the barrage coming from the rear, he also, in the darkness, had to concentrate to avoid the possibility of colliding with one of the many ships plying the Strait in his path. The experience of the Iranian crews began to tell and it was only a matter of time before they would be right on the stern unless firepower could be effectively returned to hold them at bay.

Ryder, acutely aware of the mounting danger with the hail of bullets striking the bouncing, swerving hull and superstructure, shouted for Afari to take over the wheel. He had no choice now she had to do it despite her condition; if nothing was done to stop the onslaught they would not make it anyway. She stopped transmitting and staggered to the wheel. He told her to hold the course they were on and to keep the throttle wide open, before he left the cabin and edged his way along the starboard side towards the gun on the aft deck. Fortunately, the main onslaught was coming from the port beam and port quarter. He reached the gun, opened the ammunition box attached to the side and, with some difficulty, fed in the belts before rapidly returning fire with the 20mm cannon, shells from the pursuers whistling and ricocheting all around. His relentless firing from behind the protective metal shield raked the decks of the trailing boats with such accuracy it forced them to drop away, reducing the ferocity of fire and giving him and Afari much needed respite from the attack.

Tekumah
was now on her firing station at a depth of 200 feet in the centre of the Strait on a line between the island of Larak and Kamasan at the tip of Oman's Musandam Peninsular, awaiting orders to put Grand Slam into effect. Tension ran high among the crew since Commander Lehmann had notified them of the purpose for preparing and arming the missiles. They knew the horror they soon would unleash and the consequences it may have on their homeland. All systems had been checked and rechecked and the crew now waited nervously for the order to fire.

“Captain – comms: Receiving urgent, bizarre signal in Hebrew calling for assistance. A female voice is continually repeating the name ‘Abyss' and provides co-ordinates of a mountain in the southern Zagros range.”

The commander looked up from the chart table. “Are you certain it's not a TV channel?”

“Comms, affirmative sir.”

“Position?”

“Captain – sonar: small surface craft bearing three-five-zero. Range 1000 yards. Course: two-one-zero.”

“That will take it directly across our bows. The co-ordinates, what are they?”

“Captain – comms: 30.34N, 54.52E.”

The CO stiffened; they were those for Target 2. The adrenaline increased.

“Captain – comms: have that transmission relayed in its entirety to Centre –
now!
Request most urgent response.”

“Comms, aye.”

“Captain – weapons: continue countdown.”

“Weapons, aye.”

“Go to periscope depth.”

“Aye, sir.”

* * *

Afari, with throttle fully open and barely able to keep her grip on the wheel, steered the badly damaged patrol boat as best she could across the busy shipping lanes, relentlessly pursued by the Iranians. Most of the control cabin had been shot away and a large hole had been made in the stern at the water line allowing seawater to pour through, greatly reducing speed. It was a miracle the boat had not yet sunk and they were both still alive. Ryder kept up the accurate fire but ammunition was running out; soon they would be at the mercy of the pursuers. As the clouds parted and a quarter-moon lit the waves, the fuel alarm bell suddenly rang; tanks were all but empty and to cap it, ammunition had expired too. Ryder rushed back into the cabin, took the wheel from an exhausted Afari, and in desperation searched for salvation; his only hope: several large illuminated ships bunched together in convoy not far away in the distance. Without hesitation, he swung the wheel hard to starboard and headed as fast as the boat would allow towards the ships until he finally plunged in amongst them praying the looming presence of these vessels would deter the Iranians from closing in.

* * *

“Up periscope,” ordered
Tekumah's
commander.

A hiss of hydraulics and seconds later he was looking through the night-scope scanning the waves. To port he saw several ships clustered together at less than 1000 yards and to starboard three small craft speeding towards them. The leading boat was low in the water and appeared to be in a damaged condition.

“Confirm leading craft as source of the transmission.”

“Captain – comms: confirmed.”

“Captain, roger.”

“Captain – comms: signal from Centre – translating.”

“Captain, roger,” replied the CO tensely, his whole body taut awaiting the contents of the signal.

“Maintain countdown.”

“Weapons, aye.”

“Captain – comms: signal translated.”

“Bring to the conn!” the CO almost shouted; tension now really beginning to bite.

Shortly the communication officer arrived and handed the captain an envelope which he hurriedly opened and read:

The commander handed the signal to his XO, grim-faced, took one more look through the periscope seeing the small craft not far away now, almost above them, wallowing helplessly on the starboard bow, then ordered:

“Down periscope, go to surface, all speed.”

“Aye, sir.”

* * *

Ryder felt the taste of fear; the combination of exhaustion and stress had all but overcome him. The boat failed to make the protection of the convoy and had begun to sink in the 3-foot swell. He could only stare in despair at the Iranian boats as they quickly closed in, guns now silent, powerful searchlights raking the wreck. It was obvious they wanted to take the occupants alive. Afari waited, slumped in the waterlogged cabin, while Ryder clung to the far side of the half-submerged boat.

Suddenly, the sea surged and boiled around them. From out of the depths, less than fifty yards away, rose the huge bulk of a submarine, first the sail then the sleek black hull, its top surface levelling off, glistening, just above the silvery waves. The sail silhouette, menacing in the moonlight, towered high above them. The Iranian searchlights faltered then ran erratically along the length of the hull as armed sailors poured from the forward hatches. With water lapping at their feet the men promptly slipped inflatables into the waves, clambered in and made for the sinking boat.

Shots rang out from those still on the hull of the submarine, shattering the searchlights. The Iranians returned fire, more as a gesture rather than to inflict damage, before veering away and making a hasty retreat.

Plucked from the sinking boat as it went down, Ryder and Afari were ferried to the submarine, lifted to the hull and taken down into the warm bowels of the warship. Not wishing to stay on the surface any longer than necessary Commander Lehmann ordered
Tekumah
to submerge and within minutes the submarine disappeared silently beneath the waves.