Run With The Brave (27 page)

“All three are concussed.”

“How deep are we?”

“Five hundred feet; we're on the bottom.”

He'd never dived deeper than 200, and his last refresher had been several months ago. He doubted his ability to undertake the task.

“I've no experience at this depth… put me out there and I probably won't get the job done.”

“Our divers are out of action; no one else is available,” pushed the XO.

“I understand, I understand.” He could see the fix they were in; it looked as if he would have to do it. “Just give me a little time to—”

Just then the cabin door opened and Captain Lehmann entered.

“Well, can he dive?” shot the CO.

“Yes, but seems reluctant.”

The commander fixed him with a steely gaze and said in a strong, even tone, “Unless we return to the surface within the next three hours, everything will shut down and all of us will eventually die, including you. And if we move before the Iranian sub sitting out there leaves, we'll again all be dead. That sub is carrying nukes and is going to start World War Three. So you see, Mr Ryder, we all have little choice; we need to know if we can fire our torpedoes. You are the only man with diving experience available right now to find out. You either do it or we die.” His stare bored into Ryder.

Can't get more to the point than that
, Ryder thought. If they were all going to die one way or another, he might as well go out with a bang. “Show me the exit,” he replied with trepidation.

One hour later, after a briefing by members of the crew and donning the Israel Navy's standard issue frogman outfit, Ryder waited apprehensively for the forward escape compartment to flood. Soon the external hatch opened and he glided out into the misty, grey waters. Keeping close to the black hull spread out massively below him like a huge beached whale, he edged towards the bow. Even through the wet suit he could feel the cold and his muscles beginning to stiffen; he hoped they would loosen once the adrenaline fully kicked in.

Shortly he arrived at the bow. The whole nose cone had been shredded; strands of metal hung everywhere. The torpedo had taken the hollow bow casing right off, leaving a shattered, tangled mess. Ryder shuddered at the thought of what might have been had the warhead exploded. He closely inspected the torpedo outlet covers, fully exposed on the now blunted bow structure; all but two looked distorted and firmly jammed. Instead of going back to report, he decided to attempt clearing away the shards obstructing the two undamaged outlets, and began to pull at the metal pieces. Some strands bent away relatively easily but others he could not budge. He struggled for what seemed an eternity, burning up valuable oxygen and he became increasingly concerned at the rapid depletion of air in the tanks. He would make one last effort. Bracing feet firmly against the hull he pushed and pulled as much as his strength would allow and eventually the strands began to move.

He had just about removed the last obstruction when suddenly a strong current surge pushed him hard against an extended strand of steel which, like a knife, cut into his right shoulder. Cold rushed in and blood gushed from the wound. Ryder almost blacked-out from the pain. He quickly rallied, instinct screaming to get back to the hatch as fast as he could. After one last glance at the openings through blood-clouded water, he swam around the bow and made his way painfully towards the hatch, breathing laboured from lack of air in the tanks.

As he reached the hatch, tanks now almost empty, he could feel himself slipping into unconsciousness. With a superhuman effort, delving deep into reserves, he entered the escape compartment, closed the hatch and collapsed as the seawater began to drain. He slipped further into unconsciousness, everything became distorted, noise distended, and finally a bright white light appeared. Then all thought slipped away.

In the torpedo bay, the crew hurriedly opened the escape hatch and Ryder's limp body slumped heavily to the deck, blood everywhere. A crewman quickly checked his pulse, felt almost nothing, and tried desperately to revive him. Another attempted to stem the flow of blood, applying direct hand pressure to the wound. At the same time others removed Ryder's tanks and suit exposing the deep gash from shoulder to upper chest before rushing him away to the infirmary.

On
Tekumah's
control deck, the commander paced back and forth waiting for the hull damage report.

The executive officer arrived from the torpedo bay.

“Damage?” snapped the CO.

The XO shook his head, “No report, sir.”

“No report! What happened?”

“The Brit is cut bad; losing a lot of blood. How he got back into the escape hatch is a miracle.”

“Any of the outlets cleared?”

“Sensors are registering no change. Malfunction systems are now being checked again.”

The commander reached for the intercom. “Infirmary, this is the Captain. Is the diver alive? Can he speak?”

The medic at the other end replied, “No, sir. We're doing everything we can.”

The CO stared despairingly down at the plotter.

Suddenly, “Captain – weapons: tubes three and four are clear.”

Lehmann's head shot up, casting a relieved glance at his number two. He sprang at the comms button. “Captain – sonar: ping the Kilo, we need a fix.”

“Aye, sir.”

The XO looked inquisitively at his captain; to ping the sub would expose their position.

Lehmann saw his concern. “We have to risk it. If we can get two away now and run, at least we have a chance before they fire again.”

The XO nodded; the CO was right.

“Captain – sonar: go active.”

“Aye, sir.”

Sonar made the sweep and immediately a fix was made on the Iranian sub.

“Prepare full ahead!” Lehmann yelled

“Aye, sir.”

* * *

In the infirmary, the medic was having difficulty in stemming the flow of blood. Ryder's heart had stopped and a lot of blood had been lost. He worked frantically pumping in stimulant drugs, clearing the airways and applying cardiopulmonary resuscitation. Bags of fluids were being intravenously fed into veins as quickly as possible. Finally, he punched Ryder's chest; the heart monitor flinched but did no more. He punched again. The monitor did not register; Ryder was not responding.

* * *

In the submarine's control centre the captain focused on the problem at hand.

“Make tubes three and four ready in all respects.”

One level below, the torpedoes were readied.

“Weapons – Captain: tubes three and four made ready.”

“Very well, tracking evaluation when you have it,” ordered the CO calmly, not looking away from the plotting board.

“Captain – sonar: target bearing zero-six-zero-two, range 3,000 yards. Tracking confirmed. Firing solution resolved. Computer set.”

“Stand by tubes three and four – fire by sonar.”

A calmness fostered by the tension and focus of the crew engulfed the control deck.

“Fire three!”

“Three fired.”

“Fire four!”

“Four fired.”

Tekumah
quivered as the two self-propelled heavyweight MK-48 ADCAPS shot out of the tubes and raced away into the depths and began searching for the Iranian sub.

* * *

A tray of instruments slid off the edge and crashed noisily to the infirmary deck and everyone swayed at the lurch from
Tekumah's
torpedos leaving the tubes. An audible gasp came from Ryder, but the heart monitor indicated he was dead. The medic leapt to Ryder and pumped again at his chest.

Instantly a hesitant and precariously faint pulse returned on the monitor.

“He's coming back,” the medic said calmly as he ran two large bore needles into Ryder's arm and readied a replacement IV. The pulse soon strengthened, blood pressure increased and Ryder began to breath regularly and slowly revived.

“He'll need blood
–
and quickly,” said the medic squeezing the plastic bag on the tripod to push the IV fluid in quicker.

The other crew members assisting nodded in agreement. The medic then began to stitch together the sliced deltoid and pectoral muscles.

* * *

Meanwhile, in the control room the tension was palpable.

“Captain – weapons: torpedoes under guidance.”

“Captain, aye: arm weapons.”

“Captain – weapons: torpedoes armed.”

Only the sound of electrical motors, beeping computers and the ventilation system could be heard as the two torpedoes sped through the water searching passively at forty knots for the target.

Seconds later, the MK-48s picked up the Kilo.

“Captain – weapons: torpedoes 1,000 yards from target. Switched to active; still holding.”

“Captain, aye.”

“Captain – weapons: torpedoes contact active.”

“Release weapons,” ordered the CO, voice void of emotion.

“Weapons, aye.”

Seconds later the Iranian sub, realising the Israeli sub's torpedoes were homing in, released all anti-torpedo devices in sheer desperation and panic, at the same time blindly firing the last of its small arsenal of gyro torpedoes.

Tekumah's
torpedoes were deflected, one out into the deep, the other searing obliquely along the upper hull of the Kilo, damaging the missile outlet covers and glancing off the sail without the 650 pound warhead exploding.

“Captain – weapons: torpedoes have not found the target.”

They all froze as the Iranian torpedoes passed close overhead.

“Captain – sonar: target lost.”

“Captain – weapons: reload tubes three and four.”

“Weapons, aye.”

“She's gone to the bottom, damaged maybe,” said the XO.

“Captain – helm: cut engines; lay to bottom. Rig for silence.”

“Helm, aye.”

“Captain – weapons: tubes three and four jammed.”

The captain gripped the edge of the chart table and closed his eyes for several seconds then, “We have to surface and risk the gyros. If we move fast enough we could get away before they can line us up. We—”

“Captain – sonar: target bearing zero-six-zero-four, range 2,000 yards and moving away, speed fifteen knots.”

“We've damaged her, she's running!” exclaimed the XO.

Visible relief showed on the commander's face. “Follow, I want to be sure she's heading for base. Course: zero-six-zero-four. Depth 300. Speed fifteen knots.”

“Aye, sir.”

* * *

In the infirmary, the situation with Ryder was improving. Rallying, he mumbled from the operating table, fighting intense pain, not sure if he was alive or dead.

The medic knew he needed morphine but it could kill him after losing so much blood. The drug would reduce heart rate and slow respiration, a condition that could be fatal with an already very low blood pressure count.

“What blood type are you?”

Ryder winced, “O pos… O positive,” he got out, slowly becoming more aware of his surroundings.

The medic turned to his assistant. “Check crew records; see if we have a compatible donor for O positive or O negative, otherwise this man's chance of survival is marginal.” A group O positive individual could only receive blood from a group O positive or an O negative donor. Any other grouping could prove fatal.

The man hurried away and within minutes returned.

“Lieutenant Levi is O negative.”

“Good.” The medic reached for the intercom, “Captain – infirmary.”

“Captain, aye.”

“Sir, the Brit has revived, but is in urgent need of blood. Lieutenant Levi is compatible. Can he come to the bay?”

The commander passed the intercom to his number two and the medic again explained the position.

The XO glanced at his captain who indicated with a nod he could go. The lieutenant took leave of the deck and headed for the infirmary.

The transfusion was completed in less than half an hour, in which time Ryder, now fully aware of his surroundings and improving, explained to the executive officer, in halting terms through the haze of pain, what had happened outside the submarine. When he had finished, the XO went straight to his cabin, typed up what had been conveyed and returned to the control centre where he handed over Ryder's report to the CO.

Tekumah
, unaware the Iranian sub had used up her small compliment of gyro torpedoes and that she was unable to fire her missiles, followed the Kilo at a discreet distance all the way back to Bandar Abbas, ensuring she entered the base before heading back out into the Strait of Hormuz. Commander Lehmann sent the following signal to General Nemen:

The signal arrived on General Nemen's desk in Tel Aviv within the hour. It was conveyed immediately to Prime Minister Barak in Jerusalem. His reply sent through General Nemen and received by Captain Lehmann three hours later read:

The commander smiled inwardly, read the reply over the speaker to the ship's crew then turned to the helm. “Make your course zero-eight-five. Make your depth 150 feet. Speed fifteen knots.” To the rest of the crew on the control deck he said: “Gentlemen, we are going home.”

Ryder lay in his room in the private wing of the nursing home used by convalescing government employees in West Sussex. By his bed sat George Conway, neatly presented in pinstriped suit and looking every inch the city gent.

“When they going to let me out of here, boss? I'm going nuts.”

“Back to your old self, I see. Good, but it will be at least another week. That was a bad injury. I told them you're as tough as old boots but they wouldn't let you out sooner, old chap,” he smiled. “Another scar to add to the list; the ladies will indeed be intrigued.”

Ryder managed a bland smile and touched his bandaged shoulder, “Beginning to itch – good sign.”

“You're lucky, another inch deeper… ” Conway trailed off.

Ryder worried this might see him discharged from the unit and given a desk job back at the 1
^st
Para's battalion headquarters at St Athan; worse still, total discharge from the service altogether.

“They say it's healing nicely,” said Conway with a look of confidence. “When fully healed no impairment is expected and you should be okay to start getting fit again then back to work.”

He was relieved, but wasn't about to show that to the boss. “Well, thanks. Six months' convalescent on full pay would be appropriate.”

“In your dreams, Frank; when you take the Queen's shilling…” Conway stopped short, forcing a grin.

“Nice to be wanted; the ‘Queen's shilling' could be increased for the risks I take. You know what I mean? Oh, and by the way: so much for a working holiday; if that's your term for what I've just been through I'd hate to think what would happen on a real mission.”

Conway forced another grin then adopted a serious face. “The opportunity you and the others took to look for that base undoubtedly saved many lives. A job well done, Frank; the Israelis couldn't thank us enough. They owe us big time.”

“How's Afari?” Ryder felt the Iranian deserved to be rewarded for what she did. “She's one brave lady.” He hoped he might see her again under better circumstances.

“Mending okay; she'll be given a new life in America. Families of the other four have been spirited out of Iran, too. I tell you, Frank; the Yanks were stunned by that sergeant's treachery. We asked Mossad to find out what they could about him; their people in Iran dug deep and found out he was a Savama (Iranian Secret Service) agent, and had been for many years. His father was killed when the US Navy attacked two platforms in the Rashadat oil field back in 1987. He was six when it happened. Apparently, when old enough, he was sent to America as a sleeper with an airtight cover and orders to join the US military. Now, of course, we know he worked his way into the Special Forces and fed his masters information on everything that would help the country of his birth. We sent a few other names they found to our Cousins and I suspect anyone in the US armed forces with eastern heritage should now be very worried indeed.”

“Did he compromise the operation from the start?” It still bothered Ryder that there were so many troops at that checkpoint outside Tabriz.

“Highly unlikely, but we'll never really know. The Americans have a policy that black-op missions are kept to ‘need to know' and the operatives involved are usually in lock-down before getting underway, so it seems he would not have had time.” Conway changed the subject, “I'm told two Americans and the Israelis have been posthumously awarded for their part.”

Ryder raised eyebrows.

“Before you ask, Frank,” Conway shot. “You know the rules: no gongs. But we will increase your exit benefits.”

That's if I'm still alive to enjoy them
, he almost said.

“What you and the others achieved was extremely important; the lives lost were not in vain. If all the missiles had been fired Israel would not exist now as we know it; we would all probably be in the throes of a Third World War.”

Ryder reflected on how fortunate he'd been to have survived this time; his luck must surely run out one day. The State had trained him to be a killer, autarchic in manner and confident but it was times like this he felt so vulnerable, so uncertain about his life and to what end it would finally take him. He lived on the edge and the danger of his life abruptly ceasing was never far away. His vocation blurred the difference between ‘amoral' and ‘moral' and he felt the pent-up rush of emotions generated by this taking a little piece of his courage and confidence away in the aftermath of particularly tough missions. Treated the way he had been in that Iranian prison and his injury made it worse this time, but his sense of relief at overcoming the odds gave him some level of comfort. As always, he knew he had to ride with it or let it go before he could return to normality, if there was such a thing in his chosen way of life.

“How much damage to the base?” he asked, pushing away these pessimistic thoughts.

“Don't know for sure, the Iranians are tight-lipped about the whole thing, including the damage to that dam, but what we can gather from our networks and satellites, and the Cousins of course, is that it will take years to reinstate. However, now the base is exposed, it's thought unlikely to be recommissioned. Regarding the dam, the tunnel entrance is still heavily blocked; looks as if a large chunk of mountain slid down. As for the power grid, it seems the American placed the charges well, that part of the complex looks a mess. I would imagine it will take some time to get the region back on full supply.”

“Good, at least some compensation for missing out on the original mission.”

Conway gave a wry smile, “You could say that, yes.”

A nurse entered the room and told the Omega chief it was time to leave. Conway protested, but to no avail, and finally gave in.

“Rest up, Frank… Oh, by the way, I'll be expecting the full de-brief soon,” he said as he left the room.

Ryder hated writing reports, so bloody difficult to remember details after the event. He could not help thinking as Conway closed the door: what he'd give now to be on the Harley winging his way up to London to the Prince Albert for a pint and a ciggy.

The nurse lent over the bed to ruffle the pillows. He smelt her perfume; she was pretty. He seemed to have a thing about nurses, reminding him to give Sarah, from Clapham, a ring as soon as he was out of this place and pick up from where they hurriedly left off in Seville. Then on second thoughts – must be the perfume – he cheekily placed his free arm around the nurse's narrow waist; pessimistic thoughts long gone.

“Now, now, enough of that; what would your wife think?” she said primly, gently removing his arm.

“I don't have a wife.”

“Oh,” she said, looking at him more keenly.

“Perhaps you would do me the honour of allowing me to take you to dinner?” he said formally, never one to waste an opportunity, especially when it came to a pretty face.

“Well, Mr Ryder—”

“Frank, please.”

“Well, eh, Frank, maybe when you are well enough, I'll think about it.” She blushed, busily tidying the bed before taking his temperature.

Ryder smiled knowingly.