Run With The Brave

Mike Woodhams

Copyright © 2015 Mike Woodhams

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To my sons, Stephen, Matthew and James

MILTON

Paths of Courage

British

American

Iranian

Israeli

The man hung, feet several inches above the floor, naked from the waist down. With head slumped on to his chest and arms stretched upwards, he swung gently on a rope suspended from the ceiling; a large, wet stain spread below him on the concrete floor. Two cables ran from his rectum down to the floor and over to a small electric generator in one corner of the windowless room; the smell of sweat and urine dominated. One of the four men interrogating leaned forward, lifted the man's chin and, once again, asked in Farsi, accent thick, “Who sent you?”

No response.

“Who sent you?” he repeated, this time with a sweeping back-hander to the face.

The man recoiled from the blow, opened his eyes set deep in puffed features, and looked intently at his tormentor, then spat into the Iranian's face.

Viciously punching the hanging figure in the stomach, the interrogator wiped the spittle away and signalled to the generator operator who immediately pulled at a lever firing an electric pulse through the wires.

The man screamed, bucked and swung violently on the rope before passing out.

* * *

He came to in his 6 by 10-foot cell, crouched against the wall under a yellow glare cast by a single bulb fixed to the ceiling; the stench of urine and faeces permeated the air. He was thirsty and his body ached. Taking in the cell, a sanctuary between interrogations, he saw rough prison overalls laying by the door and painfully put them on. Surrounded by dank, windowless walls, the only way he could tell night from day was by the temperature, which stifled when the sun's heat penetrated the prison block and plummeted during the darkness hours. His only comfort: a stained, straw-filled mattress easing his bruised and battered body and giving some relief from the cold, hard concrete floor. He had been given little to eat and drink: stale bread, water and thin, tasteless soup. Losing track of time he guessed he'd been in this godforsaken hole maybe three to four weeks, during which time his mind drifted, imagining at intervals his pain-racked body floating serenely over blue lakes and lush green meadows when it became too much to bear. He knew when he was hallucinating and tried desperately to bring reality back. The pain inflicted by his tormentors had almost broken his spirit; he was not sure how much more he could take. Days were filled listening to the screams of others, the sound of clanging metal doors and the dragging of bodies along the corridor outside. He remained in constant fear waiting his turn – not transient fear, but deep fear that penetrated his very soul. The dreaded journey to the room at the end of the corridor and the nightmare events which occurred within were definitely taking their toll. The anguish and suffering was almost unbearable. At first it never occurred to him to give anything to these bastards, but now he knew under the extreme pressure he would soon break and be forced to admit who he was and who had sent him. It was only a matter of time.

In a nondescript warehouse situated in an industrial zone south of the city of Jerusalem, Captain David Yoman, along with several others from Sayeret Mat'Kal's Unit 269, entered the tactical briefing room at 2030 hours. The captain sat in the front row of chairs facing a dais. Next to him sat Sergeant Yari Shiron, and next to him, Corporal Daniel Hellmann, the rest spread themselves out behind. The team, led by Yoman, had been called to the briefing still wearing their black battle fatigues on return from flushing out a suspected Hamas hideout in the central city. Slightly built, muscular, with dark close-cropped hair and intense brown eyes, Yoman attempted to relax, still coming down from the ‘killing house' operation, but found it difficult in anticipation of why they had been hurriedly summoned. Awaiting them on the dais behind a desk, sat the commander, Colonel Yabin, together with his adjutant and a colonel of the Israeli Air Force.

“You know Captain Dakar here,” opened the commander, gesturing towards the adjutant, “and this is Colonel Rosenthall of Air Force Special Operations.”

The Air Force colonel nodded and looked intently at each man with dark, penetrating eyes and grizzled features.

On the wall behind the dais were detailed maps, together with photographs of the Middle East, in particular that of the Zagros mountain range in south-western Iran.

“I apologise for calling this briefing at such a late hour, but necessity requires it,” said Colonel Yabin, his tall, thin frame looking a little awkward as he spoke standing at the desk. “I will come straight to the point. You men have been selected to undertake a mission into Iran to recon for a possible missile base here in the Zagros Mountains.” He turned and placed his pointer on the southern area of the range. “We have reason to believe the base is somewhere in the vicinity of Kuh-e Mohammadabad – a 3,600-metre high peak. SAT coverage indicates nothing, nor does heat imaging, but we are assured the information source is highly reliable.”

“Until we can produce evidence that it does exist,” added Colonel Rosenthall, “the Americans will not use up valuable SAT time to lock-in, which we can understand, with the increasing turmoil in Iraq and Syria, knowing how many they have to cover the whole region at any given time. This mountain is in a blind spot to our SAT coverage.” The colonel referred to Israel's military satellite surveillance system, Ofek (Hebrew for ‘horizon'), covering the Middle East and most of Iran.

“We need to know quickly if it is a missile base. All our cities will be in range of Shahab-5s, which we suspect they now have. They can carry a big payload, conventional warheads, or warheads capable of mass destruction.”

“And, if it is?” Captain Yoman asked without invitation, familiar with the informal and candid manner with which his commander preferred to conduct briefings.

“Take pictures and do whatever you can to disable,” Yabin replied.

“We'll need high explosives,” said Sergeant Shiron, piercing hazel eyes set in smooth, dark aquiline features fixing the commander. A livid scar ran from his left eye down to the corner of his mouth; legacy of a motorbike accident when he was eighteen.

“The demo boys have already put together compact devices using C4 powerful enough at least to damage silo heads, if any. Just set the timers and leave – fast,” said the commander.

“When do we go?” asked Captain Yoman, feeling a little more relaxed now he knew what the mission entailed.

“Within the next forty-eight hours, subject to a favourable weather forecast over the Gulf and the southern part of the range for a night HAHO insertion,” answered Colonel Rosenthall.

All the men looked at one another. HAHO (High Altitude High Opening) insertion was the ultimate means of clandestine parachute insertion and one of the most dangerous. From an aircraft flying above radar the parachutist would jump at high altitude using oxygen equipment and then effectively glide or parafly many miles on the thermals to eventually land accurately on or near the target. This form of insertion allowed silent penetration by lightly armed forces deep into enemy territory with speed and precision primarily for hit-and-run attacks, surgical strikes, or to form bridgeheads for troops following in on the ground.

“Not leaving much time to prepare,” said Corporal Hellmann, a stocky, dark-haired man with brooding features and acned skin.

“The equipment and weapons, including the explosive devices, have already been assembled,” said Captain Dakar, a small, slim man who looked completely out of place surrounded by these elite special forces' warriors but who could boast a successful term in the field combating counterterrorism within the State of Israel. “In the next twelve hours you will be required to check and recheck the equipment to satisfy yourselves everything is okay. Let me know if there is anything else you need,” he finished.

The commander pressed a button on the desk and a white screen slid down over the wall maps and photographs. The lights dimmed and a projector at the back of the room shone through displaying several satellite pictures of Kuh-e Mohammadabad on the screen. “Now, before we get down to the details,” he said, purposefully, “I want you to look closely at these satellite shots of the mountain. These were taken less than a week ago by the Americans and show the south-western side.” He turned and ran a pointer over the high-resolution pictures, stopping at various areas giving the co-ordinates at the same time. “As you can see, nothing but rock, tussock and scrub. However these points do have some interest in that we cannot see beneath what appears to be rocky outcrops. We want you to check these areas first, then the remaining mountain side between here,” he pointed to a small town called Kahbar on the south-western flank, “and Javazm on the south-eastern flank. It's a big area to cover – fifteen to twenty miles long by about five deep.

“If you find nothing, move to the northern side; cover the whole area and then start moving upwards if necessary.” He paused for several seconds looking at the screen then said, “The search could take weeks, so you'll be living rough off the land. Keep on the move. The small town of Abbasabad, on the western flank, has an army garrison. If a base exists the area will be patrolled, so be more than watchful; keep the search pattern simple. Use the GPS to check off your position against the co-ordinates before moving on. Don't leave any sign of your presence – bury everything. Communications are to be kept to a minimum. Zip out only to confirm the existence of a base and when you are able to RV for extraction.” He paused. “Okay, any questions?” He waited a moment or two. “None? In that case I'll pass you over to Colonel Rosenthall.”

As the lights came back on and the screen retracted, the Air Force colonel stood up and pointed to a large map of the Middle East. “You'll leave Ovda at 1900 hours, fly direct to the Gulf above Jordanian, Saudi and Iraqi radar, and commence the HAHO at 30,000 feet on the Iranian coastline at approximately 2100 hours. If the wind and thermals are right you should be able to penetrate maybe fifty to a hundred miles inland,” he pointed to the south-western side of the Zagros, “which should land you somewhere here.” He moved the pointer to the foothills rising from the coastland plains. “From here you will make your way on foot direct to Kuh-e Mohammadabad about 200 miles further inland using GPS.” The colonel paused, running the pointer back down to the Iranian coast. “When the job's done you'll make your way back to the Gulf, set up a RV somewhere along the coastline and we'll heli you out.”

“What happens if communications fail?” asked Sergeant Shiron.

“You make your way to co-ordinates we'll give you before you leave, between here and here,” answered the colonel, pointing to the two Iranian coastal towns of Nay Band and Bandar-e Shui. “We'll have a cruiser waiting in the Gulf monitoring the position constantly to lock-on to a homing device once you arrive. Individual homers will be part of your equipment.”

“How long will you wait?” asked Captain Yoman, anticipation mounting at the thought of a mission in the land of Israel's arch-enemy, Iran.

“As long as we can.”

Silence descended for a few moments before Colonel Yabin spoke, “Captain Yoman will lead the eight-man team with Sergeant Shiron and Corporal Hellmann as number two and three. He will select the other five and the remaining four will be on standby.” He paused looking at each of the men then said, “The operation will be code-named Tehome.”

‘Abyss'! Yoman hoped that was not to be an omen of things to come.

* * *

Forty-eight hours later an Israeli Air Force MC-130H Combat Talon II transporter left the runway at Ovda, climbed steadily into a clear afternoon sky, and banked eastwards towards the Persian Gulf. On board were eight commandos of Israeli's Special Forces Unit 269 led by Captain Yoman, together with the nine-man crew. In a little under three hours they would be over the Gulf. The aircraft climbed beyond 35,000 feet and levelled off. The flight plan: to fly over Jordan, Saudi Arabia, Iraq and Kuwait above radar detection, release the commandos 30,000 feet above the coast of Iran, and then return home by the same route. The weather forecast for the Gulf region was good and the expected wind patterns and thermals over the drop zone would present perfect paraflying conditions for insertion into Iran's interior.

Captain Yoman sat in line on canvas webbing against the fuselage with seven other members of the commando team, immersed in thought, the loud constant drone of the engines filling his ears. He let his mind drift as he leaned against the French-made BT80 chute pack strapped firmly to his back, housing the oblong silk parachute which allowed flight through the high atmosphere unseen by radar or the human eye. He wore thermal black tactical assault gear with portable compact oxygen equipment and tight-fitting helmet to protect from the severe airstreams experienced on the dive. The pack strapped to the front of his chest carried a Sig 9mm automatic pistol, spare ammunition, Kaybar combat dagger and shaped C4 explosive charges, rations and maps. The higher the aircraft went the colder it became. The ear-shattering noise in the uninsulated fuselage made it impossible to make conversation other than through the internal intercom system. The loadmaster handed out chocolate bars and cocoa. In the dim light, each side of Yoman, sat Sergeant Shiron and Corporal Hellmann, both having served with him for more than three years on clandestine operations throughout the Middle East; however, this operation would be the first into Iran. Born in Jerusalem, he often wished Israel could be free of the prejudices, hatreds and intolerances shown by many nations against the State, especially by his Islamic neighbours and, in particular, the terrorist organisations they spawned. But as a realist he knew this was not to be, at least for the foreseeable future.

Two and a half hours after leaving Israeli air-space the aircraft arrived without incident over the Persian Gulf and proceeded to fly south-eastwards down the Iranian coastline as the sun caressed the western horizon to starboard, highlighting the sea below in a blood-red glow. Yoman began one final equipment check and prepared himself mentally for the jump ‘go' in less than fifteen minutes.

Suddenly, an alarm in the cockpit blared.

The pilot shot a glance at the gauges and said calmly, “Fuel-pressure drop, number one,” before he quickly shut off the fuel supply.

The co-pilot turned to look out the window and saw flames leaping from the outer starboard engine. “Number one's aflame!” he shouted.

Moments later the pilot and co-pilot watched horrified as the inner starboard engine also burst into flames; immediately the pilot cut the fuel supply. With both props gone the pilot struggled desperately to maintain control, decreasing power as much as he dare to the port engines and attempting to avoid the aircraft yawing sharply to the right and spinning downwards, completely out of control.

The plane quivered violently and began to drop. Yoman saw through one of the small circular windows slipstream flames trailing from the engines. His heart leapt; his mind weighing up the options at the same time. Could the flames be stopped? If they had to abort could they get back safely to Israel or at least land somewhere in one of the Gulf States? And, god forbid, if they had to bail out, could they reach dry land?

The pilot and co-pilot struggled and did everything they could to keep the plane from losing height, attempting to veer south to escape Iranian air-space but without success.

At 15,000 feet and well into Iranian airspace the electronic sensors suddenly registered a lock-on.

“SAMS!” screamed the warfare officer, slamming on every electronic countermeasure available.

Too late; the Iranian surface-to-air missile, inbound at the rear of the aircraft, ignored the aluminium chaff shrouding the front, grazed the tail port wing and sheared off part of the tail structure, but miraculously without exploding.

The transporter dipped sharply and the pilot struggled to keep the 130H from plunging vertically. He switched to the operation's emergency frequency, then in an even voice, “Mayday! Mayday! This is Tomahawk. Repeat! This is Tomahawk. Do you read? Over.”

The response was immediate. “Roger that, Tomahawk. This is Red Indian. What is your location? Over.”

“Red Indian; this is Tomahawk. Be advised, fatal hit received! Iranian SAM! Bailing out! Location: 27.55North; 51.54East. Over.”

A few seconds silence then, “Copy. This is Red Indian. Instigate destruct procedure. Good luck. Over.”

“Thank you. Over and out.” The pilot swiftly set the destruct switches for all the specialist electronic equipment and weaponry systems. Then over the intercom to everyone on board, “Bail out! Bail out!” before he made for the exit.

With a mixture of desperation and frustration, Captain Yoman removed the pistol from his chest-pack and slipped it into his waistband, abandoned the forty-pound load and oxygen equipment, including the mask. The other commandos did the same. Then through the helmet comms he told them, “No way do we land on Iranian territory. Parafly towards the Saudi coastline! Clear?” He prayed the winds would allow them to fly west and reach the coast and not land in the sea.