by Run
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.
Fehed desperately tried to increase speed
, but at this altitude the most he could get was 100 mph. Ryder prayed they would make the gap in time. It was all or nothing now.
“Jesus! Those mother-fuckers are gonna take us this time!” cried Sicano, back on the cockpit deck, half looking at the mass of rock ahead and half at the oncoming fighters.
Fehed pushed the cyclic lever, sending the Mi-17 headlong into the mouth of the ravine as four AT-2 ‘Stinger’ missiles swept by and exploded into the hillside both sides.
“That was close – too fucking close!” Sicano shouted.
Ryder looked back desperately to see if the other helicopter had followed them in.
“We made it! We made it!” Sicano came again; this time the tone screaming jubilance.
“Not yet,” replied Ryder, “that chopper’s still on our tail, and gaining fast.”
Fehed opened the throttle. The helicopter careered up the broadening ravine, staying in the centre, one step ahead of the other machine and making sure the angle between them remained tight to hinder the gunner. Ryder prayed they were not carrying missiles. In a little more than a minute they soared into the inky blackness of a narrow valley beyond. Desperately, Fehed fought to keep control against severe turbulence and gusting winds, and at the same time pilot the helicopter between shadowy walls of sheer rock showing dangerously close on the screens. No matter how much he tried to lose the other craft, it stuck like glue, strafing every time the opportunity arose. The pursuing pilot knew his stuff, and slowly, but surely, began to gain.
Suddenly, shells penetrated the rear fuselage, whining murderously off the metalwork, sending everyone diving for the deck. Hellmann gave an agonised cry as one nicked his shoulder, and another came from Kellar as a shell seared across the back of his hand.
Fehed gave more throttle, the machine lurched faster, increasing the distance between itsself and the following helicopter, but only temporarily. Two minutes later they were being strafed again.
“There’re gaining!” Sicano voiced over the roaring engines. “If the tanks get hit we’re dead meat!”
The windows of the cockpit were filled with the blur of mountain blackness and jagged peaks, purple edged against a vast backdrop of bright stars in an indigo sky to the south and east. The Iranian fought hard to keep the Mi-17 under control, eyes flashing between screens, altimeter and airspeed indicator. Watching, Ryder’s adrenaline soared at the desperate situation they were in. The twin conical headlights of the pursuing helicopter closed fast, despite the frantic efforts to keep ahead, and Ryder felt so helpless knowing there was nothing he could do; his life now depended entirely upon the skill of the Iranian next to him.
Fehed flung the machine sideways and down to the right, opening throttle full out.
The sudden move caught the following pilot unawares and the helicopter swept over and was now in front, momentarily unable to use its guns.
Immediately, Fehed, in a reflex reaction, released all four AT-2 ‘Stinger’ missiles, at the same time activating the machine gun in the nose.
The missiles missed, but shells raked the rear fuselage. He tried desperately to hold the position, but the skill of the Iranian pilot was too good and he soon swept back onto their tail.
The two helicopters narrowly cleared a ridge, with only feet to spare, and rode the strong current of air on the other side, carrying them higher, before releasing its grip, dropping them down again into a narrow valley below; peaks soaring either side.
The screens and radar indicated almost sheer rock walls both sides of the corridor and a mass of rock five miles ahead where the valley came abruptly to an end. The radar also indicated a small central gap in the mass. The data defined the gap to be only 300 yards wide and less than half a mile long, slightly curving in a solid wall of rock towering thousands of feet, but most definitely leading to open space beyond.
Fehed shouted he intended to go for the gap – it was their only chance.
“You’ll kill us all!” Sicano cried.
“No choice!” he yelled back, sending the helicopter arcing towards the gap.
“We’ll never make it! One gust of wind! We’ll never make it!” Sicano’s voice was full of fear and panic.
Face taut with concentration, Ryder watched the Iranian throttle back and line up the gap. In several seconds he and the others would find out just how good a pilot Fehed was.
Ryder prepared to die as he watched the gap hurtle towards them. Would the other helicopter follow them in? It flashed through his mind that the traitor, whoever he was, must be doing the same. There would be no redemption now for any of them.
Ryder watched Fehed hold the machine steady, not once taking his eyes away from the screens, focusing intently on the image of the gap, measuring distance, speed and angle of the approach.
Seconds later the Mi-17 entered centre-on like an express train into a tunnel, and hurtled at over 100 mph along its path, barely yards from the massive sheer walls. Inside this nightmarish hell of noise and blackness, Fehed struggled frantically to keep the machine on course, and Ryder hung on for dear life.
Suddenly, almost out the other side, a tremendous explosion rocked the helicopter and blew it clear into the valley beyond. For one awful moment, Ryder thought the end had come; then with overwhelming relief, realised they had made it and it was the other helicopter that had failed.
Tensions eased and adrenaline levels fell, but the ordeal was not over yet; getting through the range still had to be achieved. Ryder determined they were in the centre and still on a south-easterly course. Should they be able to maintain this course it would take them to within a hundred miles of the objective on the south-eastern side of the Zagros’s western arm.
“They’ll be waiting for us on the eastern side with MIGs,” said Sicano, visibly shaken but now in a much calmer state, “And probably with choppers to flush us out.”
“Without AWACS they can’t track us,” replied Ryder. “If we keep low we’ll have them guessing. No reason to suspect we’re heading anywhere else other than to the Gulf. It’s logical from their point of view. Why would we want to penetrate deeper into Iran? I doubt we’ll meet opposition heading south-east. We’ll take this baby all the way until she runs out of juice.” He was jubilant they had made it.
In the following two-and-a-half hours, the helicopter plummeted, yawed and pitched at crazy angles through the darkness, sending men and equipment sprawling. Fehed fought hard to guide the aircraft between the peaks, riding the savage currents and turbulence which, every minute, threatened to plunge all into obscurity. Countless times Ryder watched snow-covered rocky ground rush at them through the windows, and waited, heart in mouth for that awful moment of impact, then to watch it rush away again, so helpless, so vulnerable to the whim of fate that nausea struck every time. When it finally ended he was so emotionally drained it took a little time to accept that he was still alive. Never with the regiment, the Increment or the unit had he endured such a long, hair-raising experience out of his control. They had survived, thanks to the piloting skills of the Iranian.
In the rear, relief showed clearly now that they were not being thrown around so much. Afari, in particular, it being her first time in a helicopter, was traumatised by the experience. Her body ached and she could not wait to get back on the ground. Of the others, only Saad had escaped small injuries from ricocheting bullets and the crazy antics of the aircraft.
The helicopter eventually landed with a heavy jolt in a desolate valley, tanks empty. Fehed, Ryder and Sicano staggered from the cockpit. Kellar pulled open the side hatch and one by one the battered and bruised group fell to the ground, mentally and physically drained. Fehed threw up and collapsed. Afari staggered about, trying to regain her balance, before she too collapsed. They had all experienced a harrowing flight, travelling some 300 miles in less than four hours through rugged mountains and had miraculously survived. Ryder was definitely glad to be back on terra firma.
The wind began to bite. Ryder gathered himself and, after a short rest to
collect their feet, ordered all to quickly unload equipment, share out clothes, rations, guns and ammunition, including what additional explosives had been taken from the SF soldiers. He told the group the objective would remain; he did not elaborate. The three Iranians still believed they were heading for the Gulf. Using new maps taken from the helicopter and the GPS, they established their position to be on the eastern edge of the valley plain between the two main fingers of the southern Zagros range, midway between the towns of Marvast and Shahr-e Babak. After Shiron gave Ryder the co-ordinates for Kuh-e Mohammadabad, they established they were less than seventy-five miles from the objective, located due east. Ryder now had to face the prospect of attempting to expose the traitor in a hurry before it was reached. He guessed the Iranian authorities would search this side of the Zagros once it became evident they had not crashed or headed west. In the meantime, at least, it would give them a head start to reach the mountain they had come all this way to find.
Soon everything was ready for moving out. They hurriedly made an effort to camouflage the Mi-17 as best they could with branches and scrub before all eight struck out due east led by Ryder. Visible on the distant horizon stood Kuh-e Mohammadabad, prominent in the jagged black line, under an orange flame that formed the eastern finger of the Zagros Mountains; beyond them, the central deserts of Iran. In a few hours it would be full light, and they needed to put as much distance between themselves and the helicopter as possible.
19
Sleet turned to light rain as dawn arrived and grey clouds scudded across the sky promising more. The group, in single file, led by Ryder, snaked over the patchy, snow-covered rising ground, desert-like and covered in tussock and thinly scattered bush. They kept up a good tab speed, despite the thin air at 4,000 feet and the heavy packs, toiling on in zombie fashion brought about by lack of sleep and pushing themselves beyond the limit. Ryder’s body, trained to function days without sleep, was now in a state of heightened perception transcending aching limbs and impervious to the biting cold. The Iranians, too, seemed to be handling the rigors without complaint, Afari in particular, much to his amazement. She was much tougher than she looked.
