Run With The Brave (24 page)

Two days of relentless slog with little sleep and constantly on the alert, Ryder and Afari reached the southern end of the plain that separated the two main parallel ranges of the Zagros. The journey over the rugged territory was definitely telling on Afari and progressively she became more reliant on him to keep up. Ryder could tell she was in some pain and feared her injury might be infected even though he had placed moss on the wounds she had told him to use. The conditions made any movement agony and it was to the Iranian's credit she endured without complaint. By now they had completely exhausted all food and only a little water still remained. If they were to continue, food and water was urgently needed. The domed huts of local inhabitants became more frequent now as they crossed the undulating scrubland to the west of a major town. It was obvious Afari could not go on much longer without a prolonged rest – which was out of the question – so he decided to hijack a vehicle once they were south of the town.

They pressed on, keeping to clusters of vegetation, until full daylight arrived as the sun crested the mountain line to the east in a clear sky. Ryder, more for Afari's sake, decided to make camp in a thicket of bush.

He gently checked her shoulder; it did not look good. “Wound's holding up okay,” he lied. “We'll rest here for a few hours… we need food and water; I'll see what I can scrounge from the locals.”

Afari gave him a weak smile. “Be careful… tough farmers and herders live in these parts… have a reputation for not taking too well to strangers.”

He nodded, “I will, but we have to eat.” Food was a priority and whatever it took to get he would do. “If I'm not back in twenty-four hours—”

“You planning to run out on me?” she cut in with another weak smile.

“I wouldn't do that,” and he meant it. “We need a plan B if something happens to me. Should it, then you make for the Gulf the best you can.”

Making her as comfortable as possible, leaving what little remaining water close by, he set out in search of food.

* * *

Not long after leaving the thicket, Ryder came to a lone hut. He knocked on the dwelling door and a grizzled old woman answered. Beyond her he could see two men hunched over a fire. When the woman called, they came over, each carrying a rifle. Ryder remembered all too clearly the last time he had encountered armed tribesmen and steeled himself for trouble. They looked suspiciously at him before stepping out, asking Ryder what he wanted. Trying hard to be casual, hoping the uniform would convince them he was genuine, he explained he was part of a patrol looking for two armed men on the run. Then he took the plunge and asked for food. The two men looked at one another, half smiles creasing their haggard features and invited him in. Suddenly, as he stepped over the threshold, and before Ryder had a chance to react, the larger of the two struck him so fast and with such force, it knocked him clean out.

When he came to, he struggled against tight bonds, but soon gave up and focused on his surroundings. Only one of the men and the old woman remained in the hut. The door was open; it was dark outside. How long had he been here? What of Afari? The man stood from the hearth and sauntered over to where he lay. Bending down, he told him the authorities would soon be here and he would collect the reward for capturing him. Then he asked if he was with others.

Ryder ignored the question; at least they hadn't found Afari.

The man pressed further and began to punch him.

Suddenly, Afari staggered in through the open doorway pointing rifle and screaming at the Iranian to step away. She could barely stand.

The Iranian, seeing her weakness, lunged sideways for his rifle.

Ryder kicked him hard in the chest sending him flying.

As he rolled away, Afari did not hesitate and shot him dead.

“What kept you?” Ryder joked, relieved to see her.

“Could easily have died from hunger waiting for you; it's been over twenty-four hours. Better to come looking for you than struggle to the Gulf,” she replied, forcing a smile.

“How the hell did you find me – in the darkness too?”

“Luck, and following that unique ripe smell you leave behind,” she joked back, wincing with pain, as she untied Ryder; the old woman wailing loudly in the background. Once free, they looked for food and took what little they could find, placing it in their backpacks before hurriedly fleeing the scene. They had to get well away; soon the other man would be returning with soldiers.

Assisted by Ryder, Afari kept up a steady pace until daylight, resting only to eat, but her efforts caused the wound to bleed heavily and she became weaker. Unless they found transport soon, he feared she may not make it to the Gulf. The two moved southwards along the slopes above a large town. Afari could now just manage unaided, but she was very weak and transport of some kind became urgent. He decided to go down into the town and steal a vehicle. Scanning the jumble of low-level buildings on the southern perimeter, his binoculars rested on a freight train in a railway siding. Two big diesel locomotives, coupled together, indicated the train might be heading south. According to the single rail line shown on the map, the tracks ended at Bandar Abbas. He tried to see the other end of the long line of wagons, but the view was blocked. This was a chance too good to miss and he decided to take it.

The two moved as fast as Afari's condition would allow, skirting the town and keeping well to cover, until they reached the siding alongside the track. Here they hid, waiting for the opportunity to board a wagon. Further down the line, military personnel were systematically searching the wagons. Although this was a worrying factor, the train being searched indicated it might well be heading south. He prayed it was.

They waited until the soldiers had passed out of sight before crossing the short open space to the nearest wagon. Ryder hurriedly hoisted Afari in through the open door of the empty wagon, then himself and the equipment. They huddled together, Ryder hoping the train's destination was Bandar Abbas some 150 miles south and would soon be on the move. Afari looked so vulnerable and a strong feeling of protectiveness shot through him. He held her close, making her as comfortable as possible on the hard wagon floor. Thankfully it was much warmer now which eased some of the discomfort.

Almost an hour passed before the two big French locomotives blew horns and began to slowly pull away, heading south much to Ryder's relief. The long line of wagons snaked out of the siding, gathering speed; he gained confidence the port was the likely destination. As the train chugged through the rugged valleys he did his best to clean up Afari's wound and give what comfort he could, holding her close and keeping her warm until she finally succumbed to sleep. Soon Ryder, himself totally exhausted, lapsed into a fitful sleep lulled by the sway of the wagon and the rhythmical sound of steel on rails.

Sometime later the train began to appreciably slow, horns blew several times, awakening the two, as the wagons rattled across tracks and into a siding where it slowly came to a halt. Hurriedly checking the map and GPS, Ryder ascertained they were in a town called Fin, fifty miles north of Bandar Abbas. Would there be a search? That fear was soon confirmed when, after only ten minutes in the siding, Ryder poked head out of the wagon and saw groups of militia making their way along the wagons, fortunately without dogs.

Where could they hide? Afari, alert now to what was happening, urged him to help her clamber up through the vent and out onto the roof. Ryder noted a trapdoor in the floor, decided against going through, although quicker. It would mean she would have to cling to the undercarriage; in her condition that was out of the question. Without another word, he hoisted Afari up onto his shoulders and pushed her through the vent, swiftly followed by the packs and rifles.

The searchers were now very close; no time to jump and lift himself up through the vent. Instead, he rushed to the floor trapdoor, opened it and slipped through. Clinging precariously to the metal framework beneath, hard up against the floorboards, he watched the legs of several Iranians pass, look into the wagon and move on. Minutes later, when he was sure it was safe, he re-entered the wagon and called quietly to Afari, who handed down the equipment before lowering herself painfully onto his shoulders and on to the boards.

Shortly, horns sounded again and the train began to pull away; Ryder certain now it was heading for Bandar Abbas. Both settled down for the remainder of the journey and he hoped there would be no more halts until they reached the port

One hour later the train rattled into the marshalling yards at Bandar Abbas; it was now dusk. Instead of waiting for the train to stop, Ryder decided it would be better to leave the wagon once it had slowed sufficiently for both to safely get clear. The wagons clattered and rolled across the numerous tracks into the sidings, slowing considerably, allowing Afari to lower herself, with his help, through the open doorway, until she felt the ground and ran alongside. He followed soon after with the equipment. They hid in the shadows of the many wagons lined up close by. Through the undercarriages and between the wagons, Ryder could just make out, in the dimming light, a wired fence which he guessed was the perimeter. Keeping to the shadows, the two cautiously picked their way across the tracks, weaving between slow-moving freight wagons, until they arrived safely at the fence. Glancing about to make sure no one had seen them, Ryder helped Afari to slip through a gap in the mesh and both melted silently away into the darkness.

In the secure conference room deep in the bowels of his Jerusalem offices, Prime Minister Barak, together with Defence Minister Binyamin Marok and Commander-in-Chief of Israel's Navy, Major General Nemen, stood looking at a large wall map of the Middle East.

“If the American scenario is to be taken seriously, the submarine would be somewhere here,” Nemen said, pointing to a spot in the Persian Gulf just west of the Strait of Hormuz.

“I'm taking this very seriously,” said Barak. “Those satellite photos clearly indicate something is going on.
Tekumah
has confirmed two Kilos have left the base, also that a Kilo may be heading into the Gulf. Our own people in Bandar have confirmed all Kilos are out. Two heading south, but where is the third?”

“As the Americans point out,” said Marok, “they could be scattering in anticipation we will retaliate.”

“Wise move,” Barak said with a cold smile. “A second strike could come any time. What type of missiles would she be carrying?”

“Chinese JL-1s, say the Americans, with a range of a thousand miles,” the General replied.

“How many?”

“Four.”

“Warheads?”

“Multiple types, each can deliver seven nuclear devices.”

“So, from the northern end of the Gulf, they can reach our cities?”

“Yes, Prime Minister, they can,” replied Nemen grimly.

“This submarine poses a real threat if in the Gulf,” said Barak.

“We cannot do much to prevent a land-based strike, but we can at least attempt to eliminate a sea threat,” offered Marok.

“If the Americans are right, how long would it take for the sub to be in position?” asked Barak.

“Approximately forty-eight hours moving slowly at depth to avoid detection,” replied Nemen.

“She's been out ten hours, that leaves thirty-eight,” said Barak looking up at the map and folding his arms. Several seconds later he turned to the General. “Send
Tekumah
into the Gulf, find out if the sub is there and destroy if found. Hold Grand Slam for the time being unless we are attacked again.”

The telephone rang. The prime minister picked up the receiver and listened for a few moments. “Send him in,” he said and replaced the receiver. “It's Dagan; he wishes to see me urgently. The matter apparently cannot wait.”

“Shall we stay?” asked Marok.

“Yes, if appropriate. We'll see.”

The door opened and Meir Dagan, short and smartly dressed, entered.

“Take a seat,” said Barak to the chief of Mossad, pointing to a chair at the table opposite his. “Should Biny and the General stay?”

“Yes, what I have to say will affect them too,” replied Dagan, grim-faced, forty-five years of age but looking ten years older with grey receding hair and bulging eyes under dark, bushy brows.

“Do you want the tape on?”

The Mossad chief nodded. All meetings between the prime minister and his spymaster were usually taped. A military stenographer typed up the transcript and a copy was placed in the secretariat safe with another copy sent to the Mossad chief.

Barak pressed a button beneath the table to activate the recorder and turned to Dagan.

“Now, what is so urgent?”

Dagan came straight to the point, “We are about to be attacked again with nuclear missiles.”

“By who?” shot Barak.

“Iran.”

Barak, Marok and the navy chief glanced fearfully at each other.

“Submarine launched missiles?” Barak asked.

“Yes,” replied Dagan, somewhat surprised. “How did you know?”

“The Americans suspect an Iranian Kilo sub is in the Gulf to do just that, using Chinese JL-1s that could carry nukes,” replied Barak. “Where did you get your information?”

“I prefer not to say. It may compromise the source.”

“Then how are we to authenticate it? I have already ordered one of our submarines to find and destroy the Kilo. It would be good to know I am justified in doing so,” said Barak sharply.

Dagan sat silently for several seconds unsure if he should reveal his source, then, reluctantly: “Please, turn off the tape.”

Barak did. “You sure you want this?”

Dagan nodded. “We have a highly placed contact in the armed forces.”

“Why did he not inform us of the first strike?” asked Marok.

“It did not involve the Iranian Navy; now it does,” Dagan fired back. “This strike has been hurriedly arranged for unknown reasons.”

“Does your source know why the first strike was not followed by another?” asked Barak.

“No. All he knows is that the Iranians believe a window of opportunity must not be missed,” replied the Mossad chief. “Two Kilos have been sent out into the Indian Ocean as decoys and a third is now somewhere in the Gulf with orders to fire nuclear missiles at Jerusalem, Tel Aviv and Haifa.”

Again, fearful glances, Dagan continued, “The Kilo has only recently been converted, launch tests have yet to be carried out and the crews, although experienced, are barely into the launch training programme. Chinese instructors are on board to manage the firing process.”

To have the American suspicions confirmed presented a shock to the three men. All they could do was stare at the Mossad chief.

Barak broke the silence, “Inform
Tekumah
immediately to destroy the Kilo. Reinstate Grand Slam and alert all our anti-missile batteries to prepare for an imminent attack.” He stood up. “Thank you. Please excuse me, I have to attend a function – everything must still look normal.” He paused, a false smile creasing his haggard features. “We have no alternative but to await events.”

With that, the meeting came to a close.