Run With The Brave (9 page)

Late afternoon arrived and Yoman chose a place to make camp in a small but densely wooded area where they would stay until dawn the next day. Ryder quickly settled in, grateful to rest his aching limbs. The Israeli captain insisted on no fire so they made do with chewing what was left of the polecat jerky. Turning in as soon as a brushwood shelter was finished, Shiron and Hellmann took the first watch and the rest, so utterly exhausted, were soon asleep, oblivious to the cold and the light snow which fell, gently blanketing the ground around them.

Ryder and Yoman were called in the early hours for the fourth watch. Shaking off the cold and tiredness, Ryder huddled with the Israeli at the edge of the camp. The snow had ceased and sparse clouds now scudded across the sky regularly breaking the soft illumination of a crescent moon hanging low on the horizon.

Whilst he scanned the surrounding trees and dense bush, Yoman tried to get a fix on the stars through the silhouetted foliage of the forest canopy.

“Still a way to go, Captain?” Ryder asked.

Yoman turned and looked at him, sharp features pronounced in a shaft of light.

“I guess so, but we'll get there.”

“Looking at those peaks, I have my doubts.” Ryder nodded towards the jagged snow-covered peaks forming the heart of the Zagros range, just visible in the diminished light cast by the crescent moon through the tall stands of trees.

“We'll keep to the foothills and valleys; so long as we maintain a rough south-easterly direction, the target will be found.”

“I admire your confidence, Captain – a big ask; we're going to need a shit-load of luck.”

“Not luck, Frank – determination.”

An hour passed uneventfully; the two men intermittently discussing survival problems, at the same time striving to keep warm, when Yoman questioned, “What the fuck's that stench?”

“I noticed earlier; much stronger now, though.”

The captain sniffed the air; the smell seemed to engulf the whole clearing, pungent and penetrating.

Fehed awoke, the percolating stench filling his nostrils. He sprang out of the shelter and hurried over to where Ryder and Yoman squatted.

“Wolves!” he cried. “Quick! Rifles!” the Iranian shouted, hastily arming his machine pistol.

“Hold it!” shot the captain. “Wolves won't attack; too many of us.”

“Wolves in these parts sometimes roam in large packs, especially during bad winters, and would not hesitate to attack humans if hungry enough and sufficient in numbers,” said Fehed urgently.

Ryder felt uneasy at that, straining to see if he could detect any movement amongst the shadows. He turned to Yoman. “Start shooting and the sound of gunfire could have every fucking Iranian soldier homing in on us for miles around.”

“I'm fully aware of that,” he spat back.

“If you don't,” Fehed snapped, showing raw fear, “you'll have the whole pack on us and there won't be anything to find! From the stench, there could be as many as twenty – and close,” he pressed.

The acrid smell grew worse.

“It's only a question of time before they attack,” he pressed again, highly agitated.

The three crouched, watching, waiting, Ryder trying to stem the fear that grew by the second.

“Wolves are cowards – we don't need to fire,” Yoman suddenly hissed, jumping up to move forward.

Ryder tried to grab him but he was too quick; rushing into the bush, shouting at the top of his voice and waving arms frantically, the captain disappeared into the shadows.

Ryder made to follow but froze as a spine-chilling howl rose malevolently in front of them, followed by another to the side. Then blood-curdling screams amid a torrent of gut-wrenching snarls, growls and primordial screeching filled the air.

By now the others had joined them at the edge of the clearing facing the trees.

Fehed looked urgently at Ryder. “They have the taste of blood! Shoot now or all will be lost!”

Ryder hesitated, but only for a few seconds, before letting loose with rifle, followed by the others, spraying the surrounding bush.

Screams of animal pain, guttural snarling and scurrying came from all sides as the wolves fled from the hail of bullets; the undergrowth became a frenzy of movement as terrified animals fought to escape the onslaught of lead. When the frenzy finally ended, Ryder shouted for the shooting to stop, leaving the staccato sound of automatic-rifle fire echoing through the valleys and beyond.

Smoke and the smell of cordite mingled with the stench of wolves hung heavily in the air. Ryder stood transfixed, visibly shaken by what he had just witnessed; so many of them and so close. Then he followed Shiron and Hellmann as they rushed into the bush to find the captain. What Ryder came across sickened him. Yoman's torn body lay grotesquely against the trunk of a tree surrounded by dead wolves, his face almost unrecognizable with arms and legs shredded. He was still alive, but in a bad way.

The two Israelis tried to make the captain as comfortable as they could but he was losing a lot of blood and they could not stop it.

Brady turned and said to Ryder, “He's not gonna make it… do we carry on?” inferring Ryder was now back in command.

Ryder in turn looked at Shiron. “What do you want?”

The Israeli, scar livid on his cheek, glanced at Hellmann then said firmly, “We'll carry on… you take command.”

Then to the Americans, “You okay with that?”

The three agreed. Brady pulled him to one side. “We need outta here – and fast.” He glanced down at the captain. “He's too bad to travel.”

Ryder turned to Shiron. “We have to get away. Can you carry him?”

The Israeli shook his head; it was obvious the captain did not have long to live.

Ryder looked at him intently and could tell Shiron knew what he was thinking, but before he could say it the Israeli turned, went back to Hellmann attending Yoman and spoke to him quietly. Moments later, the sergeant drew his pistol and, without hesitating, ended the captain's misery.

“Okay, bury him quickly and let's get away from here,” said Ryder, tentative at being back in command.

As the first rays of light appeared dimly in the eastern sky they dismantled the shelter and gathered belongings. Pushing from his mind the shocking demise of the Israeli captain, Ryder led the file out of the wood and headed south, weaving a path through scrub and gorse towards the black mass of the horizon. The wind cut deep and more snow was in the offing. They made good progress through the undulating and often torturous terrain, until some fifteen uneventful miles later, forced by cold and fatigue, Ryder sought shelter in the late afternoon. Making camp in a shallow hollow he decided to remain there for the rest of the day and move out the following morning. After eating, the watch was agreed and a short while later, Ryder, and those not on watch, collapsed into fitful sleep.

Ryder lay cold and tense in the shallow hollow watching with growing concern as the twelve parachutists descended out of a clear morning sky and drifted down into the valley below. The small transport plane from which they had disgorged banked steeply at the end of the broad depression and made one more deafening swoop over the drop zone before rising rapidly again south-west to disappear out of the valley. No one spoke as Ryder, squinting against the sun's glare, tried to determine exactly where the parachutists had landed.

“Special Forces,” Brady snapped, breaking the silence, releasing the safety-catch on his Kalashnikov.

“To be expected,” Ryder shot back, doing the same.

“Yeah, but this soon?” said Kellar.

“Mountain troops,” voiced Saad.

Hellmann pointed down into the valley. All looked and saw through the trees six men moving swiftly in single file up the slope towards the hollow, and to the left another six heading north-east away from their position.

“We need to move, now, Frank,” Brady urged.

“I cannot go another step,” pleaded Saad. “Nor can he,” he glanced at Qatak.

“You move, or we go without you,” shot Brady.

Ryder threw the American a look that said, “I'll make that call.”

“Maybe we should take them out whilst we still have the strength?” said Shiron.

“We have to keep going,” Brady pushed home, looking hard at Ryder.

“They can easily track us in this snow,” Shiron pressed.

A short silence as both men stared at one another.

Ryder had to agree with the Israeli. A patrol so close held too many risks. “We'll take'em,” he said firmly.

Brady threw him an angry look. “How do you propose to do that without alerting the others?” he countered.

“Bayonets,” Ryder shot back, raising his machine pistol. “We'll use these only as a last resort.”

“They're getting real close,” said Kellar in an effort to ease the tension. “Gonna stumble right on us.”

The six Iranian soldiers were now less than 100 yards away, and heading straight for the hollow.

Ryder glanced at the patrol, then at Brady. “You and your men take the first three and we'll take the rest,” he nodded at Shiron and Hellmann. He turned to the Iranians. “You hide in the bush here. Don't move until it's over.”

With that, he and the others hurriedly positioned themselves along the edge of the hollow concealed in bush. Ryder steeled himself for action.

The thud of footsteps, jangling metal and laboured breathing came closer.

The patrol reached the hollow and began to walk single file around the rim.

Suddenly, one of the soldiers turned, let out a cry and pointed down in the hollow at Fehed partly exposed in the bush, and raised his weapon.

Before the soldier could fire, Ryder leapt, his whole weight behind him, striking the man's mid-drift and sending them both sprawling over the rim and down the snowy slope. The bayonet, aimed at the heart, glanced off body armour and the soldier rolled away. Determinedly, he lunged again, aiming higher, but the man rolled a second time and he missed. Partly regaining his feet, the soldier brought his rifle up and in desperation, Ryder lunged once more, higher this time, and the bayonet sliced deep into the soldier's throat. Choking, he fell to his knees, looked at Ryder with terror-filled eyes as blood spurted from the severed jugular, before crumpling to the snow, dead.

At the same time, the others pounced. Shiron's bayonet hit body armour too and he rolled with the man partway down the slope to smash hard against a tree. Fortunately the soldier took the full impact against the trunk and was severely winded, allowing the Israeli to make another strike. This time he got it right, slipping the bayonet up under the armour, through the ribcage and deep into the heart.

Hellmann had little trouble with the last man in line dispatching him with a powerful fist to the face followed by turning him and swiftly slicing the bayonet deep across the soldier's throat.

Of the three American's only Sicano struggled to take out his target when he hit armour; the bayonet slipping from his grasp at the crucial moment forcing him to use all his strength and skill to break the soldier's neck; but not before the burly man almost overcame him with his tenacity to resist. The soldier was the biggest of the six-man patrol and, no doubt, the element of surprise had played a considerable part in the outcome. The two other Americans had swiftly dispatched their targets, having gone straight for the throats first time. The whole violent encounter was over in a matter of seconds and left a bloody scene of red-stained snow and crumpled bodies littering the slope.

Stripping the dead of everything useful, including field glasses, detailed maps, a compass and field rations but most important of all, a GPS strapped to the wrist of the soldier Ryder had killed, they shared out the spoils. Unfortunately, the maps only covered a small area, but at least with the co-ordinates shown and the GPS, Ryder could keep track of where they were for at least another twenty or thirty miles. After that they would use the compass and back to guesswork. The second in line had been carrying a radio transmitter.

“Anyone worked one of these?” snapped Ryder.

“I have,” Hellmann replied.

“Good – get that working, and hurry. I want to transmit.”

“Without call-code?”

“Yes Corporal, without call-code.”

“What frequency?”

“You choose. I want to buy some time. Move those dials.”

Hellmann worked his way through the frequencies until a high-pitched Iranian voice came through the speaker.

“Bear One to Bear Three… What is your position? Come in – over.”

Ryder took the mouthpiece. “Bear Three to Bear One. Targets sighted and engaged two miles north-west of drop zone, pursuing. Radio damaged, attempting to repair… Over and out,” he shouted in Farsi, fading the signal in and out with the dial.

“Will they buy that?” Sicano asked.

Ryder shot a glance at the American. “Put yourself in the commander's position; he receives a sketchy transmission confirming a sighting and targets have been engaged. The signal is confused, but coherent. What should he do? I know what I would do: send troops to the new location. The last scenario he would consider is us destroying his elite troops; and knowing the radio was damaged, he would not be unduly worried if no further transmissions were received either. Besides—”

The radio crackled again; a voice came through ordering all search patrols to head north-west of the drop zone.

Ryder smiled, white teeth glittering in the fuzzy blackness of a stubby beard. “Hold that frequency and keep open. I want to know every move they make.” Then, turning to Saad and Qatak, “We're moving out now, with or without you.” He felt sympathy for both men but they had to keep moving.

Both Iranians shrugged and struggled to their feet, as did the others. Afari helped Qatak, his pale and drawn features indicating he was in some pain.

Ryder checked the group's position with the GPS before he ordered the party to move out south-eastwards down the slope and into the valley below. Tired and hungry they traversed the valley as quickly as they could, trying to put as much distance between themselves and the dead soldiers as possible, keeping well to the bush and avoiding open ground like the plague. Ryder drove them hard until, by early afternoon, the party had cleared the valley and began to clamber up the rising ground on the other side.

Eventually, well into early evening and totally exhausted after covering many miles over rugged ground, they made camp in a rocky gully providing good cover. The radio receiver kept them informed of the movements of any pursuer. Sicano suggested maybe they should transmit signals, at least to let any friendlies listening know they were still alive, but this was quickly turned down by Ryder on the grounds any signal would not transmit far in these mountains and they would seriously risk discovery. After a hasty, meagre meal of field rations and water, Brady and Kellar agreed to take first watch and the rest finally collapsed in the makeshift shelter.

The Iranians, especially Afari, looked all in; less so the three Americans and two Israelis. Ryder himself felt totally drained and exhausted. The adrenaline that had kept him going was fast coming down leaving only a desperate tiredness and fatigue. All he wanted to do now was sleep, and he did the moment he laid down his head.

The night was long, cold and uneventful, and for most, the dawn could not arrive soon enough. Fortunately, for Ryder, he'd slept well and felt revived.

Qatak, in particular, had had a bad time. Afari, despite her fatigue, stayed close by to attend him as best she could, but could do little. When Ryder awoke he went over to the injured Iranian.

“Arm looks bad,” Afari whispered; she pointed to the Iranian's fingers. “They're black; turning gangrene.”

The others joined them.

She pulled back the loose cloth covering the arm. All winced when they saw the wound. The limb was certainly a mess and there was no mistaking the faint odour of rotting flesh.

Moving away, followed by the others, Ryder said, “He can't travel like that.”

The Americans and Israelis nodded and glanced at one another.

Ryder knew what they were thinking:
He'll hold us up
. He did not want him to die like the Israeli captain. “It must come off,” he said firmly. “If we don't do it he'll certainly die. I know it'll mean being holed up here for another day or so, but that's better than maybe having to amputate later out in the open.”

Shiron voiced what Ryder had suspected, “He'll hold us back. We have a long way to go. He'll never make it.” The Israeli glanced at each of the Americans for support; instead, they just shrugged.

“We do it now. He'll make it.” Ryder hoped he was right, even though the odds were against them. If it had been a leg then it would have been different.

They went back to the Iranian.

Qatak lay, slight frame propped against a rock, staring at them with glazed eyes, his pallid olive skin drawn taut across gaunt features. He was obviously in great pain and trying hard not to show it.

Ryder began to speak, but the Iranian raised his good arm and looked at him with pain-filled eyes. “It must come off… do your best… make it quick.”

Ryder nodded, turned to the others. “Any of you amputated before?”

Silence for several seconds.

“I have,” said Afari, almost in a whisper.

She looked haggard and frail, but Ryder noted the fire in her eyes and steeliness about her.

The rest turned to her with looks of surprise but said nothing until Ryder told the other Iranians to prepare a fire using dry timber to avoid thick smoke.

Two hours later Qatak whispered he was ready. Afari had prepared a place by the fire and had boiled water from a nearby stream. Strips of cloth were washed and dried for bandages.

She examined the wound carefully revealing the elbow joint completely shattered and joined only by torn skin, muscle and sinew. She turned to the others, “To remove the lower arm and gangrenous flesh it will be necessary to cut through the joint with a sharp knife then cauterise muscle and tissue left on the stump. I'll use the knife taken from the hunters.”

They all nodded. Ryder put the broad blade of the knife into the fire.

Qatak was then carried to the fire and made comfortable. Kellar placed a tourniquet on the man's upper arm whilst Afari wiped sweat away from the Iranian's brow before carefully arranging the arm so that the inner elbow was fully exposed. Checking the knife blade glowing red in the embers and bayonet blade washed in boiling water, she reached for a piece of cloth, wrapped it around a short stick and placed it firmly between the Iranian's teeth. Qatak's eyes were wide conveying fear at what was about to happen. Afari looked tense and drawn. She glanced at Ryder; he gave her a short, reassuring smile. Kellar patted the Iranian on the shoulder and began to tighten the tourniquet.

Afari indicated to hold the Iranian firmly down. She took hold of the bayonet handle with her right hand, gripped the Iranian's upper arm firmly with her left, then made two bold sweeps around the limb, cutting right through flesh to the bone.

Qatak gave a stiff, muffled scream and writhed in agony, but was kept down.

Blood spread everywhere. Afari did not panic, but calmly told Kellar to keep the tourniquet as tight as he could whilst she found the joint and drove the bayonet in, severing the lower arm completely in two deft strokes.

The Iranian fainted.

Loss of blood had been stemmed by the tourniquet and the raw red stump of the upper arm was now fully exposed.

Afari reached for the hunter's knife in the fire, removed it and swiftly drew the broad, flat blade twice across the bloody tissue. The flesh seared as the blade cauterised the wound, fusing flesh, muscle and arteries together in a few hissing, hellish moments, before she threw the knife to one side and hurriedly began bandaging the stump.

Wrapping the severed limb in cloth as best she could, Afari told Kellar to loosen the tourniquet before moving away and slumping against the face of the rocky outcrop. The whole episode had taken less than thirty seconds but she looked mentally drained.

The two Israelis had moved away to keep watch whilst the amputation was taking place. The weather was good and they could see both ends of the gully. Both said little as they focused on the scrub and bush. In the background the sounds of the amputation could be heard.

Then, “See what you can get on that,” said Shiron, looking at Hellmann and nodding towards the transmitter.

The corporal stood and went to the transmitter. Seconds later, “That's funny, I could've sworn I left it on channel and switched off before turning in,” he said, shaking his head and looking inquiringly at Shiron.

“You probably unknowingly moved the dial.”