Run With The Brave (15 page)

Ryder awoke abruptly in the cold grey light of dawn and immediately sensed danger. Instinctively he rolled then froze the moment he felt the icy end of a rifle barrel pressed against his temple. Fear gripped as he looked up at the crouching, grim-faced soldier holding an AK47. A massive surge of adrenaline followed and the fear quickly turned into defence mode. He sensed the others were in a similar position. From the corner of his eye he could see Sicano and Kellar, both face down at the side of the hollow in an unconscious state.

Sicano groaned, turned over, and held the back of his head, followed a little later by Kellar, blood flowing from a gash on the forehead. Both men were roughly prodded up amidst confused shouting. The rest, too, were forced at gunpoint to their feet and all were herded into line, hands on heads, whilst two of the six-man patrol systematically searched each one, relieving them of all weapons.

Ryder's mind raced, eyes everywhere for possible escape routes, but it seemed there was no way out of this one; they had paid heavily for the fire earlier and the venison fare.

The hollow was searched and all equipment stacked on the edge. Ryder watched in despair, shocked at the swiftness and stealth by which they had been overcome.
Well and truly fucked now
.

Afari cowered as two of the patrol holding her leered, one with the muzzle of his rifle nudging suggestively at her crotch.

The leader, a short, powerfully built man in dirty-white alpine fatigues with small, darting eyes, walked down the line studying each man closely, before turning and yelling orders. He looked tired, and from the appearance of the patrol, they had been away from base some time. Two of the patrol quickly emptied the contents of the group's packs, filled two with all the captured weapons and hoisted them onto their backs. He barked again. Ryder and the others were then roughly roped together, pushed out of the hollow and marched down into the valley, led by the officer, with two of the patrol on each flank and one bringing up the rear. Haze shrouded the valley as they made their way slowly through the scattered trees and scrub heading north-west, the dark, brooding mass of the Zagros filling the horizon to the north and east. The sun climbed higher, slowly dispersing the haze, until the whole valley and hills surrounding came into focus. After what seemed like endless hours the tethered captives eventually arrived at three circular huts nestled at the base of a tussock-covered knoll guarding the end of the valley.

The officer leading disappeared into the nearest hut and returned shortly to herd the captives inside where they were penned with goats at the rear, still roped together. He then ordered the soldier carrying a transmitter to contact base for a helicopter to airlift them out.

The atmosphere inside the hut was smoky and fetid. The leader sat in the centre with the small group of Luris while the soldiers spread themselves around the circular space. Two women prepared food over an open fire and shortly bowls of gruel were handed to the leader and his men. The captives went without.

One of the soldiers nearest the pen quickly emptied his bowl, stood up and went over for more. Ryder, squatting next to the low wicker enclosure, looking for the chance to escape, attempted to loosen his bonds. He eyed the soldier's rifle propped against the wall only a few feet beyond the enclosure. The rope binding his hands in front would not fully give despite his efforts. However, he gauged they were spaced far enough apart to just about fire the rifle if only he could get hold of it. It was now or never. Without hesitating, he leapt the barrier and lunged for the automatic, but was cruelly pulled up short by the taut rope joining him to Sicano.

The sudden movement jolted the others into action immediately as they realised what was happening and all lunged forward too, only to be brought down in a heap when Sicano, Hellmann and Kellar became entangled before any could jump the barrier.

In those few desperate moments, the Iranian officer sprung to his feet, quickly drew pistol, and in one swift movement, shot Brady dead as he tried to get over the barrier and dive to yank the gun away. He then swung and levelled his weapon at the others sprawled helplessly amongst the bleating goats until finally his men regained control, beating the captives back into the pen with the butts of their rifles. Trampled under the hoofs of the panicking goats, Ryder did his best to defend against the blows, devastated that his bid to escape had failed and that Sergeant Brady had paid the price with his life. Had he not attempted to go for the rifle the American would still be alive.

It was late afternoon the following day when the sound of an approaching helicopter roused the captives from their apathy. Immediately, they were ordered from the pen and herded outside. A red sun hung low in the sky and a strong wind whipped coldly down the valley. Ryder watched dispassionately, resigned to the situation, wishing now he had not embarked on this crazy venture; and to make it worse, knowing whoever the traitor was had won out. The grey helicopter descended like a huge insect to the thin carpet of white; powerful motors blotting out all other sounds and billowing clouds of snow high into the air.

The big Russian-built Mi-17 landed, the motors powered-down and remained ticking over as four armed men in white alpine fatigues sprang from the side and hurried towards the huddled group. A brief discussion between the patrol leader and one of the men and the captives were quickly manhandled towards the craft. Brady's body was to be left, strongly objected to by the other two Americans, but they were ignored and for their trouble, beaten again. Ten minutes later, when all eight were on board, plus the ten soldiers and equipment, the pilot powered-up the motors and the helicopter soared back into the sky.

Ryder and the others held on grimly to overhead straps, watched closely by the soldiers positioned in the fuselage front and rear. Conditions were cramped and of the twenty people on board, only the pilot and co-pilot had room to themselves. Turbulence was bad in the mountain currents. In one particularly violent lurch, Ryder swung hard against a soldier who tried to steady himself, missed the metal fuselage rib altogether and bounced back, hitting Ryder squarely in the chest. He winced at the impact, raised hand instinctively to avoid a repeat and suddenly felt a grenade firmly within his grasp. Ryder did not hesitate; pulling the grenade from the clip, he pushed the soldier aside, removed the pin and held the grenade aloft for everyone to see, yelling at the same time for attention above the roar of the motors.

Horror registered on the faces of the soldiers when they fully realised what was happening.

Sergeant Shiron reacted first. Grabbing a rifle from the nearest man, he leapt to the flight deck and, in front of the dumbfounded pilots, smashed the radio equipment with the butt. Seconds later he yelled at the co-pilot to go to the rear and then placed the rifle muzzle against the pilot's throat.

The helicopter bucked wildly, Ryder rolled with the lurch, one hand firmly gripping the overhead strap, the other clutching the grenade. He shouted orders at the others to strip the soldiers of weapons and anything else of use and keep them covered.

On the flight deck, Shiron, now in the empty co-pilot seat, surveyed the instruments. From his basic training in military helicopters he could see it was equipped with the latest enhanced navigational and infrared radar systems of the type used in the IF Super Frelons, and fuel gauges registered the tanks were almost full.

With the Iranians disarmed and guns trained on them, the captives were in full control of the rear. Ryder ordered Kellar to open the hatch so he could now get rid of the grenade. Edging his way towards the opening, recoiling as the icy blast hit him full on, he threw the grenade out as hard as he could to see it explode seconds later somewhere harmlessly below. He then joined Shiron on the flight deck, followed by Sicano.

“Do we have enough fuel to get us to the Gulf?” the American shouted at the pilot when he got there.

The pilot remained silent. Shiron replied instead, telling him the tanks were almost full, therefore theoretically they could. The Israeli looked desperately at Ryder.

“Do we have enough to take us to the objective?” he asked.

The Israeli nodded. “She's also rigged for night flying.”

“Over these mountains?” shot Sicano, surprise on his face. “You fucking crazy?”

Ryder, adrenaline pumping, came to a decision. “We're going to finish the job.”

The Israeli beamed.

“Shit, Frank! We'll be lucky to get over those fucking peaks!” Sicano shouted, losing it. “If the grenade explosion failed to be monitored, you bet MIGs will be up anyways once its established radio contact is lost and the blip on the radar is us. They'll shoot us right out of the fucking sky.”

“Maybe, but we're on our way,” Ryder shouted back through the roar, turning to the pilot and asking how far away they were from base. “Forty-five minutes,” he replied, adding that fighters would have already scrambled.

Ryder ordered the pilot to turn off the navigational lights then scanned the rapidly darkening horizon streaked in red and magenta through the almost vertical glass screen of the cockpit.

“How far to the peaks?” asked Sicano, a little calmer, staring intently out through the screen.

“Forty, maybe fifty miles on this course,” Shiron came back. “At this altitude, airspeed can be no more than a hundred. A little less than thirty minutes would see us in the high range.”

“If MIGs are on the way we can kiss State-side goodbye for sure,” the American replied, voice shaking.

“We've a chance, hugging the ground. It would be far too risky for them to attack us now in failing light. Once amongst those peaks they would definitely have to break away,” said Shiron, trying to reassure Sicano and give Ryder some confidence in his decision.

Ryder knew enough to understand they would be taking a tremendous risk flying the helicopter through mountain terrain in darkness, especially at high altitude where the weather could be so severe and unpredictable, but as far as he was concerned, he'd given his word to the Israelis; there was no turning back.

“Safer to dump the chopper; those mountains at night would be asking to meet our Maker,” pressed the American.

“Sure… sure it's dangerous – extremely dangerous,” Ryder shouted, “but only a little more so than crossing the hard way. We're not equipped to tackle the terrain on foot. This chopper provides the answer. It's rigged for night flying and it's bloody quicker than walking.”

Sicano turned to the pilot, still under the muzzle of Shiron's automatic, and asked him if he had night-flying experience in the range; the look on the pilot's face said it all.

“This guy's scared shitless!” fired the American. “We can't risk everything on his fucking judgement.”

“I'll do the flying,” said Shiron, a little hesitantly, then a bit more forcibly, “This bird is much like a 321G Super Frelon, and I've had night experience. We've a fifty-fifty chance of making it. Luck's been good to us so far, so let's push it some more. I can do it.”

Ryder was not so sure. The Israeli somehow did not give him the necessary confidence. In the meantime, the helicopter continued to rush towards the high peaks. “What training you had?”

“I've never flown one of these, but I'm familiar with the Mi-17's capabilities though: speed, range, ceiling max, powered by two Isotov TV2-117A Turbo shaft engines. I did basics in Frelons – similar.”

“Basics!” shot Sicano, almost losing it again, turning to Ryder, “We can't let him take us through these mountains, Frank; he'll kill us all!” The Iranian helicopter pilot looked desperately at the American.

Ryder knew he was right; maybe they should ditch and go on foot after all. Then he had a thought and shouted back down into the fuselage, “Send Fehed up here,
now!”

Shortly, the Iranian's thin, gangly body squeezed onto the cockpit deck, forcing Sicano to move partway into the fuselage area.

“You said you'd flown helis for Special Forces?” Ryder asked, then, “You flown one of these at night?”

The Iranian's brown eyes fixed him intensely over his prominent nose then turned away and scanned the controls. Seconds later he glanced up and nodded.

“Good. You take over,” shot Ryder, feeling relief before turning to Shiron and pointing at the pilot. “Take him to the rear.” After they left, Fehed quickly strapped himself into the vacated seat and took immediate control, confirming the helicopter's range, altitude and fuel status. Ryder strapped himself into the co-pilot's seat and told the Iranian immediately to change course south-east.

Suddenly Ryder shouted, “Here they come – two o'clock!”

Sicano, together with Fehed, looked up and saw through the screen two black objects approaching fast from the east, “Holy shit! We ain't got a show!” the American cried.

Two MIG fighters swept low from left to right across the helicopter's path, separated and banked steeply away, wings glittering red in the evening sky before sweeping around in a tight turn and coming back at them from the rear.

Ryder felt and saw the aircraft thunder past and felt every fibre of his body contract waiting for the dreadful moment when cannon impacted. But it never came. The two fighters, almost level on either side, flew up into the southern sky.

Shortly, once again the jets with landing lights full on and wheels down, swooped, not so close this time, but close enough to force Fehed to take the helicopter even lower. Minutes later they climbed steeply away and out of sight to the rear.

“They're not shooting; they're not fucking shooting!” shouted Sicano, incredulously. “We were right on line and they goddamn let us go for the second time!”

“They want us down in one piece,” said Ryder, craning forward to see where the next approach would be from.

“Whadda we do now?” yelled Sicano. “They'll knock shit out of us for sure next time!”

“We'll go right down; let them think we intend to land,” he turned to Fehed, fighting to keep control of the helicopter. “Keep her at full throttle, as close to the ground as we dare. Another ten minutes and we'll be into the high range.”

“We have to lose weight!” the Iranian shouted. “Once in those mountains, every pound will count.”

Ryder could feel the heli was busting a gut. “Go down! Go down! We'll dump the Iranians.”

“Frank! Those soldiers are keeping us from being blown out of the fucking sky!” Sicano pressed.

The two jet fighters swept by again much lower, but well above the Mi-17.

Fehed levelled off at 200 feet and gave full throttle.

“They won't come much lower!” he shouted, “If they do… ” he trailed off.

Ryder looked at the bewildering array of instruments glowing green in the dim light of the cockpit, in particular at the infrared ground-following radar and GPS systems, as they rapidly approached the high range at 100 mph. He then turned and shouted back to the others to retain guns, ammunition, food, clothes and anything else useful and dump the rest, including the Iranians.

Shortly, all was ready. Fehed descended holding the helicopter steady just above the ground. Twice the jets swooped over as low as they dared; no doubt assuming the Mi-17 was about to land.

“Jettison!” shouted Ryder. “As soon as the last—” he stopped short and stared transfixed through the cockpit screen, “My God: choppers!”

The prisoners were bundled towards the now-opened hatch where everyone immediately saw two helicopters approaching from the right, silhouetted against the orange blaze of the western sky with white conical searchlights piercing the darkness ahead.

Ryder felt desperation as the two black insect-like shapes raced towards them, knowing there was nothing he could do but rely on Fehed, praying he was good enough at the controls to avoid getting them all blown out of the sky, not only by these oncoming choppers but by the MIGs that menaced them from above.

“Let's go! Let's go!” yelled Ryder, eager to soar away, watching the Iranian controlling the collective pitch lever with one eye and the other on what was happening behind in the fuselage.

Sicano rushed from the deck into the fuselage and, with the others, herded the Iranian troops out of the hatch. Seconds later, when the last man fell to the ground several feet below, he shouted at Ryder to take her away and at the same time threw surplus equipment out as the helicopter rapidly rose.

The Mi-17 surged upwards considerably more buoyant now. Fehed handled the craft skilfully and, before the oncoming helicopters could block their southerly path, managed to gain a good head start.

From the hatchway, Sicano, Kellar and the others watched the rear helicopter break off and descend to the men bunched on the ground, but hurriedly slammed it shut as the first helicopter began to strafe the side with machine-gun fire.

The two jets came at them again very low and from the west. Within seconds they opened fire sending streams of cannon and tracer across the Mi-17's path, so close the shells almost removed paint from the nose.

They all watched the jets climb steeply away to the left, bank and line up for yet another run. From what Ryder could see through the screen he figured they would get one more before the helicopter reached the protection of the peaks.

Fehed flew the Mi-17 dangerously close to the ground and headed towards a large wedge-shaped ravine barely visible in the fading light. Focusing on the infrared terrain scanner issuing data on height relative to type and bearing of ground formation below, he went at maximum speed towards the gap now only three miles ahead.

The two jets approached again, straight at them from the right, higher than the previous run, and opened fire sending cannon all around. The barrage was terrifying, forcing him to reduce airspeed and height dramatically to almost ground level. To Ryder, strapped in beside the Iranian, every ounce of Fehed's experience and skill was now in play to keep the helicopter in the air; all their lives were now most certainly in his hands.

As soon as the jets swept overhead he increased altitude and sped towards the gap. The Mi-17 responded easily, manoeuvring erratically both horizontally and vertically over the fast-rising ground, as Fehed tried desperately to confuse the jets and shake off the pursuing helicopter.

Both MIGs banked steeply and turned in an incredibly tight circle, no doubt aware this would be their last run, and began the approach from the left, parallel to the rising range.