Run With The Brave

by Run

  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.

  All nodded and followed him to the side escape-hatch.

  He watched the crew bail out then waited for his team to jump, one by one, before he too leapt out of the doomed aircraft.

  With Yoman and the other commandos close together in a fairly tight formation, wind tearing at their bodies, the rapidly changing digits on his wrist altimeter told him he was now at 8,000 feet and dropping faster than anticipated. He worried too that the wind velocity and thermals at this point were in a strong easterly direction as predicted, taking them not towards the Arabian coastline, but into Iranian territory as feared. No matter how much he tried to change direction the mottled browns and yellows of the Iranian coastal plains loomed large below. An explosion to the south told him the aircraft had finally hit the ground.

  The crew of the ill-fated aircraft, using standard-issue parachutes, dropped almost vertically, rapidly descending at various rates in the fading light, spread over a distance of almost a mile.

  At 1,500 feet, Yoman watched vehicles producing plumes of dust track his flight path while he fought unsuccessfully to maintain horizontal flight. As the ground came fast towards him, he searched for a place to land offering some form of cover. Everywhere was almost flat except for a few low-lying sandstone outcrops and dunes. Closer to the ground, he saw the dark, snaking line of a narrow wadi running parallel with the base of a string of linked outcrops. Without hesitation he tugged at the guides, followed by the others, and all dropped quickly towards the wadi gouged out by centuries of wind and rain.

  At 1,000 feet he looked on helplessly as the two military vehicles closed in towards the wadi. Minutes later he landed in the dry bed, quickly shed his parachute harness and desperately searched for cover. Within seconds, to his left and right, no more than twenty yards apart, the other members of Unit 269 landed and did the same in the sparse terrain that was flat, littered with small rocks that offered little cover, together with sporadic clusters of boulders that did provide some semblance of protection. They scrambled for the nearest cluster against the base of the wadi wall just as the first of the two trailing vehicles came to a halt on the edge of the opposite side.

  Heavily armed troops spilled from the rear and began to spread. It looked hopeless but the captain was not prepared to surrender without a fight.

  “Fan out, make every shot count,” he urged the others, each carrying a P226 pistol with a 15-round magazine giving a total of 120 rounds between them.

  With backs to the jagged wadi wall 10 to 15 feet high, Yoman and his team spread themselves no more than several yards apart in a rough curve. Each man had chosen a boulder large enough to give a modicum of cover. None spoke nor moved once settled, waiting, pistols cocked and ready, for the onslaught to begin. The wadi at this point was some forty yards wide.

  The second truck arrived and discharged more troops who, together with the squad from the first, scrambled down into the wadi and began to zigzag towards the Israelis’ position.

  Yoman steeled himself, estimating twenty to thirty heavily armed men now homing in, edging closer from all angles across the dusty wadi-bed using whatever cover available; shadows only in the twilight haze.

  The Iranians opened fire first, spraying bursts of metal into the ban
k behind, sending sandstone and slivers of rock showering down on the commando’s positions.

  During the intense firefight that ensued, Yoman, on the outer stretch of the curve, caught a sudden movement to his left, swivelled, and as he rolled to another boulder close by, gunned down two soldiers in rapid succession about to shoot from close range. He picked off several more under a hail of bullets but it became increasingly difficult to line up a target the closer they came and the more accurate their machine-gun volleys became. Now with only a few rounds left and nowhere to go, he knew it was only a matter of time before they would be overrun.

  Suddenly, an ear-shattering explosion followed by an agonised cry.

  Yoman looked to his right and saw Sergeant Moshe Soch writhing on the ground, right arm shredded to the bone and left leg severed at the knee; the bastards were using grenades! With blood gushing from his wounds, the burly sergeant struggled up, retrieved his pistol, and continued to fire until the magazine emptied before he died, bullets churning the ground around him. He then saw Corporal Abir Yaakov at the other end of the curve. Under intense attack, the corporal broke cover, firing wildly at the oncoming shadows, downing three as he stumbled erratically over the short distance towards a boulder that looked to give better cover. He never made it, reaching only halfway before he was almost cut in two by a fusillade of lead smashing his broken body against the wadi wall.

  Yoman, in despair, kept blasting away until he heard the click of the firing pin against an empty chamber. He could do nothing now but await the outcome; either to be killed or taken prisoner. With the ammunition of the five other surviving commandos expended too, return firing finally ceased.

  For several seconds an eerie silence hung over the wadi, Yoman remained still, looking straight ahead, waiting to be mown down at any moment. ‘Abyss’ had been an omen after all; they were now about to face the void. Slowly, one by one, the Iranian troops emerged from hiding and edged menacingly forward in the semi-darkness, weapons cocked. When they reached the Israelis, now standing in line, a stocky little man in battle fatigues stepped forward from the pack in front of Yoman and barked in Farsi, “Which one of you is in charge?”

  “I am,” the captain answered.

  In one swift movement the Iranian rammed the butt of his rifle into Yoman’s stomach. “That is for my men you have just killed,” he snarled as Yoman collapsed, reeling with the pain; another blow, this time to the head, and the last thing he remembered were the cries of the others as they suffered the same fate.

  Bound hand and foot, the Israeli commandos were dragged unconscious to the nearest truck, thrown in and driven to an Iranian base. Operation Abyss had ended before it had really begun.

  2

  Ryder’s heart missed a beat.

  Out in the centre of the ring the lithe figure of the young matador, resplendent in silver and blue, high cheekboned and displaying all the arrogance of his gypsy heritage, took up position, unfurled the small red cape and walked to within ten yards of where the powerful black bull stood. He stopped, raised the sword in his right hand and proffered the cape with his left.

  Under an autumn afternoon sun bathing Seville’s Plaza de Toros de la Maestranza the sound of a rousing pasodoble competed with a 12,000 noisy crowd chanting: “Tor-re-ro! Tor-re-ro! Tor-re-ro!”

  “What’s he doing?” Ryder’s companion screamed above the clamour.

  Ryder couldn’t believe what he was seeing; the boy has balls. “Not now, Sarah. Not now.”

  But she persisted.

  In a taut voice he gave in, “He’s going to kill recibiendo, the oldest and most dangerous method of dispatch – unbelievable!”

  “For Christ’s sake, Frank; what the hell does that mean?”

  “Enticing the bull to charge from a distance; when it reaches him he’ll hopefully guide it past with the cape, letting it run onto the sword high between the shoulders. If the bull raises its head at the very last moment, a horn will undoubtedly nail him in the chest.”

  “Oh my God; that could kill him!” she shouted amidst the clamour, equally fascinated and repelled by this ballet of death.

  “He knows what he’s doing, don’t worry.” But he couldn’t help thinking: he could well do that! The moment of truth had arrived.

  The music stopped. The crowd hushed. The bull pawed at the ground and snorted. The matador drew himself up, sighting along the sword then flicked the cape, “Toro, ha; Toro, ha.”

  The animal sprang forward. The man waited, feet firmly planted in the sand.

  Seconds later he and the bull merged as one; the sword flashed in the sunlight, entered the bloodied shoulders and sunk deep up to the hilt. The lowered head and massive body followed the red cloth out to the right, its momentum carrying it well beyond the man, staggering, coughing; blood gushing from an open mouth before plunging to its knees and rolling lifelessly on the sand.

  The plaza erupted.

  “Ole! Ole!” Ryder shouted, jumping to his feet, caught up in the euphoria around him. For Sarah it was over all too quickly; the skill shown by the man had been but a blur. To Ryder, and to most of those packed in the arena, the animal had been dispatched with grace and with skill.

  “Did you see that? Did you see that?” Sarah gushed amidst all the applause, holding hand to her mouth, “So quick… so horrible; yet so beautiful.” The closeness of such a primitive, violent act gave her a vicarious thrill more than she cared to admit. Ryder ignored her, absorbed in his own emotions. He could not help feeling respect for this boy who had just stared death in the face. He did not consider himself an aficionado but he definitely related to the emotion it generated, understanding the technical and ritual aspects which led up to the death of the bull. Only in this life and death struggle could the most primitive and intense emotions be experienced both by the matador and by those watching. The whole thing appealed to his inherent sense of survival and to his own deep primitive instincts.

  Unscathed, the matador, glittering, turned and smiled broadly up at the frenzied crowd in a sea of white handkerchiefs. Arms raised, he walked towards the barrier and began a triumphant tour of the ring to the roar engulfing the plaza. Sombreros, cushions, cigars and flowers rained down onto the sand; the bull’s ears, tail and a hoof were awarded by the bullring president. When he had completed a full circuit a trumpet sounded, the ring cleared and the last bull of the afternoon trotted out into the arena.

  To Ryder, this beautiful Moorish-style ring with its arched colonnades, whitewashed walls and yellow ochre trim, the spiritual home of Spanish bullfighting, provided the perfect setting for the deadly encounter between man and beast. Sitting in the shade, second row up from the passageway between the ring and the stands, they were close enough to feel the vibrant energy and smell the action on the sand below. Ryder was pleased to see that Sarah was holding up well to the violent nature of the spectacle, considering she had never been to a bullfight before.

  The sleek brown beast with wide horns stopped, raised its huge head and sniffed at the air, great neck-muscle raised and taut. It then ambled around the perimeter, shying away when challenged by the peons stepping out from behind the barrier. To Ryder this was not a good sign; it seemed this bull did not want to fight. He glanced at the programme. The bull, ‘Insurrecto’ –‘Rebel’ in English (aptly named he thought) – was a five-year-old from the ranch of Miura and weighed 1,200 pounds. He understood enough to know it was unusual for Miuras to lack bravery; they were feared by most matadors, referred to as ‘the bulls of death’.

  “I’m no Hemingway,” Sarah cried, “but that bull looks as if he’s not interested.”

  Ryder looked at her in surprise. “You’ve heard of Hemingway?”

  “You think I’m a dummy, Frank? You could say I’m widely read.” She gave him a cheeky grin.

  “You’re right. He’s what those in the know call a ‘Manso’ – tame and cowardly.”

  One of the matador’s peons attempted to cape the animal but it stood its ground and bell
owed. He tried again. The bull shied away and galloped towards the opposite side of the arena, turned and ran back again, this time at great speed. Then just before it looked as if it was going to crash into the barrier the inconceivable happened: the huge beast leapt at the 5-foot-high structure, reached the top easily and used the solid timber framework to launch itself with hind legs across the passageway and up into the stands scrambling awkwardly over the low steel cable railing before spilling onto the concrete terracing not far from where Ryder sat.

  Sheer panic gripped the spectators in that section as ‘Insurrecto’ found his feet and ran amok along the tiered seating. The crowd scattered; some jumping down into the ring, others clambering upwards. The animal cut a swathe through the mass of bodies surging upwards and sidewards trying desperately to avoid the slashing, hacking horns. Many fell in the crush, trampled as they lay helplessly in the path of the beast. Ryder, caught in the wave of humanity, tried to protect himself and a terrified Sarah, punching and kicking those who attempted to overwhelm as the panic-stricken throng fought to get away. Before he knew it the bull was only yards away; a young woman was struck in the thigh and swung helplessly from one horn. Everything happened so fast. The matadors and peons had only just now begun to climb up from the ring below waving capes to distract the enraged animal which seemed determined to continue its rampage. Casting the unfortunate woman on the horn aside, blood gushing from her leg, the animal charged straight at Ryder along the narrow concrete terrace dividing the Barreras and tendido seating.

  He did not hesitate. Grabbing Sarah’s large canvas bag, he threw it hard at the on-coming beast to distract it. The straps caught the right horn and the bag swung down over the bull’s eyes, blinding it momentarily, halting the charge. In those vital few seconds, Ryder jumped up to the next tier, dodged the slashing horns, and hurled his 6-foot solid frame against the animal’s flank, catching the bull off balance and sending it crashing sidewards down to the first row. He narrowly missed the thrashing hoofs as it keeled over with him all but entwined between its legs and then unbelievably again as the beast struggled to regain its feet. Desperately he tried to roll away but was slammed against the step; it’s bulk squeezing him hard against the concrete surface. He thought he was about to die.