Run With The Brave

by Run

  Fear seared through her like a knife. “Who says this of me?” she shot back, inwardly trembling, almost unable to stop it showing.

  The one who had rifled through her bag said in a cultured voice, “We know you are MEK and involved with recent bombings.”

  Three pairs of eyes bored into her, making her want to vomit, “That is not true!” she blurted, mind racing to think of a way out.

  “Do not deny; it will make it worse for you,” he spat with a cold smile, then turned to the others.

  They smirked, running eyes over her body.

  Oh my God – rape!

  She spun and lunged for the door. But not quickly enough and they were instantly upon her.

  A short struggle, before they dragged Asfari kicking and screaming back to the table. Quickly removing her jilbab and underclothes, they pressed the top half of her naked body face down on the table with feet on the floor and arms stretched out across the veneer, held at the wrists.

  Would she survive this? She feared for her life.

  The cultured voice, laughing, spread her legs whilst the other two pulled on her outstretched arms. He dropped his trousers and thrust into her. She sobbed as she felt his groping and brutal penetration and his rough hands running all over her upper body. When he had finished the other two followed, taking their time, revelling in her torment. The violation completely overwhelming, she tried to blank out the pain and anguish thinking of her mother and father and of the good times she had spent with them; but most of all she thought of revenge.

  When the last one had satisfied himself she was ordered to dress. Hurting from the brutalization of her body and weeping with shame and revulsion, she wanted to die. One of the men handcuffed her and the three, laughing and joking, led her out of the building and into a waiting car which took them to the Ministry of Intelligence and Security HQ in downtown Tehran.

  7

  Suddenly, Frank Ryder was jolted from his stupor at the sound of clanking cell doors, shouting and scuffling, as men were dragged out of their cells and along the corridor outside. He felt bile rise in his throat. He had coped with the beatings but had only just held on when the grinning brown-faced interrogators had used electric probes. Thank God he’d listened to the techniques of blanking out pain taught by the psychologists and trainers at Hereford. He thought of home, even his wild youth in the Brixton streets, absent parents, and fishing for big carp in the Kent lakes, anything to take his mind away from the brutality, not allowing the agony to penetrate and overcome his resistance. He questioned himself time and time again. Why the fuck not tell them what they want to know? Who the fuck cares if they know? Hey! Hey! Who gives a fuck! But he did not give in; instead he lost himself in memories and mind over pain. He believed the more you showed suffering, the more you would be brutalized. Fear seared through him at the expectation of what was about to come.

  What fucking game were they now going to play?

  His cell door swung open and two guards entered. They roughly wrenched him up from the mattress, dragging him unceremoniously into the corridor and frogmarching him once again down to the end and into the large, windowless interrogation room. Lined up against the stark grey walls in the dim light were the remaining members of the American team, plus several Iranian prisoners closely watched by more than a dozen armed guards; Captain Cane stood dignified and upright, as did the other Americans. Looking at them strengthened Ryder’s resolve to resist, but this bringing everyone together in the same room was a first and it heightened his fear.

  The interrogators entered, led by a tall, middle-aged officer they had not encountered before. Positioning himself at the central table, the officer, dressed in a neat green uniform, stood for a moment before he strode over to the Americans and walked down the line, eyeing each man intently. When he reached the end, Ryder held the officer’s chilling gaze before the Iranian returned to the table. Moments later he spoke directly to the commandos in perfect English. “Gentlemen, I know you clearly understand me therefore I shall not repeat what I have to say, nor shall I elaborate in any way. It will be up to you to answer your own conscience and come to what I hope will be the correct decision.” He paused to light a cigarette, drew deeply and blew smoke towards the ceiling, then continued. “We have broken your imperialist network in Tabriz. We know your purpose here was to attempt to disrupt our economy and food sources by destroying two of our most important dams. We will, however, eventually extract everything we need to know about each of you and you will confess to the world what you have attempted to do to the Iranian people.” He blew another column of smoke upwards. “You have been most stubborn in resisting so far, but we are not prepared to wait any longer.” He stared coldly at Ryder, who suddenly felt an overwhelming sense of foreboding. How did they know about the dams? Had any of the others talked? If so, how much did they give away? These questions and many others flooded Ryder’s thoughts, overriding his fears.

  The officer turned and nodded at the interrogators, two of whom then manhandled the nearest Iranian prisoner to the table. A small pair of bolt cutters was produced. Utter fear showed on the man’s face as he struggled to resist.

  Fuck! What do they intend to do with those? Ryder felt rage and revulsion at the prospect. He wanted to turn away but was inexplicably drawn to the table where the unfortunate man’s right arm had been outstretched and held with fingers splayed.

  The brute wielding the cutters stood poised, the officer nodded, and he slowly moved the shiny curved blades downwards and, without hesitation, sliced off the Iranian’s thumb.

  A primal scream of shear agony filled the room, piercing Ryder’s very soul.

  The officer looked at the Americans and lingered on Ryder. “This man will continue to suffer unless you confess to the world who you are and what you intended to do.”

  He remained silent but raged inside, wanting to kill this psychopathic officer.

  Again the officer signalled to the interrogator wielding the cutters.

  The cutters went to the index finger of the sobbing man who let out another almighty scream as that finger came off too.

  “Do I have to take them all before you do what I want?”

  The poor man, hand in a pool of blood, looked beseechingly at Ryder who turned away, forcing his mind to block out the scene.

  The officer waited, the tortured man’s gulping sobs filling the room. After a minute or two he turned again to the interrogator and nodded.

  This time the cutters came down and, one by one, sliced off the remaining three fingers. With each severance, the room was filled again with nerve-shattering shrieks ending only when the officer drew his pistol with suppressor attached and put a bullet through the unfortunate man’s head, splattering blood and grey matter across the table and over the floor.

  Ryder screeched in protest and lunged towards the table, unable to take any more, followed seconds later by the Americans. All were beaten back mercilessly with rifle butts by the overwhelming number of guards. The smell of blood and fear filled his nostrils.

  “That has set the tone nicely, don’t you think?” said the officer with a cruel smile when things had settled down.

  Ryder was nowhere near prepared for what happened next.

  The officer, green uniform spattered in blood, strode over to the line of the six remaining Iranian prisoners, placed the pistol against the head of the nearest and pulled the trigger. He then moved to the next, and the next, and shot them too, continuing along the line in quick succession without a shred of emotion, until all were dead.

  The room was now in total uproar. The remaining captives, unable to control their emotions, screamed obscenities at their tormentors whilst brutally restrained by the guards.

  “Confess! Confess!” the officer shouted, rushing towards the line of Americans, ordering the guards to take Brady to the table.

  Ryder’s mind reeled at the horror, the dead bodies, the psychopathic interrogators, and the even more psychopathic officer now preparing to
mutilate or kill an American. He would probably kill them all eventually in his frenzy, unless a confession was made. Ryder felt nausea and rage as he surveyed the carnage, smelt the blood and fear, then he finally broke.

  “Stop – stop! You fucking shits; stop it!” he screamed in English.

  Sudden silence, then, “Well, that is much better,” voiced the officer, breaking it, calmer now after the killing spree. “At last you have come to your senses, as I knew you would. This method always encourages men to be – how shall we say: more forthcoming? Yes, that is the term.” He smiled coldly, letting dark eyes linger on Ryder like a snake. “Now we shall talk and you will sign confessions.”

  At that moment the door flew open and in strode a short, grey-haired man wearing a general’s uniform. The interrogators and guards snapped to attention. The general glanced disdainfully at the blood and gore and ordered the interrogating officer to step outside the room.

  Heated voices soon came from the corridor and, minutes later, the officer returned, features taut and flushed, looked angrily around the room and said, “You are to be transferred immediately to another centre. There you will tell us all we need to know and inform the world how you have attempted to violate our beloved country.” He then stormed out, followed quickly by the three other interrogators. The guards menacingly closed around the prisoners. Ryder shuddered; a further prolonged, painful time lay ahead. How much more could he take?

  Not long after the ordeal in the interrogation room, Ryder and the nine Americans, together with a group of Iranian prisoners, were herded out into the compound. In the bitter November wind, Ryder dug deep to overcome his despair and resist making a break for it; reason told him it would be futile. Eventually, three large canvas-covered army trucks entered the compound and drew up alongside the shivering company. They were then hurriedly manhandled into the back of the middle vehicle already occupied by a number of other emaciated prisoners, including women. Once all tightly packed in and the tailboard bolted, the guards hurriedly dispersed into the front and rear trucks and the three vehicles left the compound, heading east.

  PART TWO

  Treacherous Journey

  8

  As the convoy of three trucks merged with the bare, rugged terrain in the snow-sprinkled northern foothills of the Zagros Mountains some 100 miles south of Tabriz, Ryder lapsed in and out of awareness but could not wash away his own miserable world of defeat and despair. He tried to squash the negativity but his thoughts left him wondering how all this would finally end. Packed tightly in the middle vehicle, the journey so far for him had been traumatic, travelling over potholed and rutted dirt roads causing extreme discomfort from the continuous jolting and bouncing on the hard metal floor. His personal misery ebbed and flowed as the vehicle weaved its way through wooded valleys and climbed up and down steep inclines of barren mountainsides coupled with the continuous throaty roar of the engines and crashing gears. Muffled English, Hebrew and Farsi conveying the despair of those around him did not help the mental pain and anguish he now suffered, which almost matched that experienced in the filthy Iranian cell and the room at the end of the corridor. The khaki camouflaged vehicles strained slowly up a steep incline, engines grinding at full power over the narrow, dusty road. It was late afternoon and a watery sun had dipped behind the peaks, casting long shadows over the rough and jagged windswept ground. The convoy crested a ridge in the rapidly rising foothills and began its descent into yet another deserted valley of rock, scrub and scanty trees. Patches of pristine snow grew in size the higher they went.

  Suddenly, a thunderous roar blotted out every other sound, then a rumbling from deep within the ground. Seconds later this was followed by a series of short, sharp cracking noises which echoed down the valley and shook the entire mountain and the road cut into its side.

  Earthquake!

  The truck lurched violently and was thrown hard to one side. The ground under gave way, sending the lead truck plunging off the road and down into the valley to the right, engulfed in a torrent of collapsing rubble and dust. Ryder’s middle vehicle rolled; bodies collided with one another and smashed against the metal framework as the vehicle rode down on a river of earth, dust billowing into the rear almost choking everyone within. The vehicle behind immediately followed and all three careered uncontrollably down on top and partly beneath the moving mass of earth and rock, eventually coming to a halt half buried on the valley floor some 100 feet below.

  An eerie silence engulfed the valley. Before the dust could settle, Ryder crawled from the debris, dazed but unhurt, amazed to still be alive, followed by a jumble of others from his truck. He recognised only Sicano, Brady and Kellar. All had suffered minor cuts and bruises.

  Survival instinct immediately kicked in and without a word, Ryder, the Americans, and others who were able rushed over to the nearest vehicle, its crushed rear protruding from the rubble. It was clear no one had survived inside the mangled wreckage. They removed what weapons and ammunition they could retrieve and sprinted to the next.

  Inside the twisted mess of the second truck some of the occupants were horribly injured and barely alive. Weapons and ammunition were again removed but not before the Iranian prisoners shot those that were still breathing, not out of compassion but out of revenge for what they had suffered.

  Hurrying back to their own vehicle, less damaged than the other two, Ryder and the three Americans checked the sprawled occupants amongst the debris. Captain Cane was clearly dead, half buried, head smashed to pulp; the other five Americans were somewhere beneath the pile of rubble; frantic digging exposing their crushed and lifeless bodies. Out of the nine who left the prison only Sicano, Brady and Kellar had survived. Seven Iranian prisoners, one a woman, had also survived. Most suffered cuts and abrasions, one had both legs broken, another lay in a pool of blood from a crushed leg. In the failing light the survivors looked at one another. Ryder knew they would not get far with the seriously injured men and the Iranian authorities would show little mercy to those left behind.

  Shocked by the swiftness of what had just happened, he tried to come to terms with the situation, acutely aware of the urgency to get away without delay. Providence had set them free, but in this vast, hostile mountain range, with hardly any food or water to speak of, he knew the situation was nothing short of desperate; the odds of escape and survival almost nil. The trucks would soon be missed and they would be hunted down. No choice but to run and put as much distance as possible between the valley and themselves before the sun rose. Ryder thought about making his escape alone but decided it was probably best to stay with the survivors – at least for the time being. In this environment there could be strength in numbers.

  “Okay, who’s taking command?” he shot at the Americans. It had been their operation; he was only support.

  They each glanced at one another. The lengthy silence that followed prompted him to think that perhaps without their officers these men might be losing a little of their nerve.

  Then Master Sergeant Brady said quietly, “I will.” He did not sound convincing.

  Ryder could hardly believe it. “How much do you know about this part of the world, Sergeant?”

  “Not a lot. Overflow would’ve been the first op here.”

  “What about you two?” He looked at Sicano and Kellar who both gave blank looks and shook their heads.

  Fuck! Am I going to risk my life following these guys? – Don’t think so.

  Ryder came to a decision; glancing at each of the remaining survivors, “We’ve been given this chance to escape; I suggest we take it and go our own ways. Grab what you can and split.”

  “Wait!” shot Brady, “You’ve been here before, come with us.”

  “No disrespect, Sergeant – but I prefer to make it alone. You guys know what you’re doing. Just head west.”

  Brady hesitated, glanced over at the other two Americans then said, “Look, we have to be practical here. If it’s a question of who leads; I understand you’re ex-
Brit Special Forces, you take command.”

  Sicano and Kellar nodded in agreement.

  Ryder was a little surprised at that. These men were toughies and not in the habit of relinquishing leadership; he could only reason they had weighed up the odds and concluded more chance would be had of escaping Iran with his knowledge and experience than if they tried it alone. And, like him, probably thought there would be strength in numbers.

  Having operated in northern Iran before, Ryder knew enough of that part, at least to maybe get them as far as the Turkish border. He did not hesitate. “Right, if that’s what you want, let’s go.” He now had command. First priority: sort out the injured, second: get away from here fast, and as far as possible.

  “What about the bodies?” Brady asked. “We need to bury.”

  “No time,” he shot back. “It’ll take too long to dig out then bury.”

  “We can’t just leave them like this,” pressed Kellar. It was standard practice for Special Forces, especially Americans, to never leave their dead to the enemy.

  “You’ll have to if you want to survive; leaving ASAP must be the priority. Iranian troops could be swarming any time. We need to put as much distance away from here as possible.”

  The three Americans stared at one another.

  Ryder was not prepared to waste any more time. “Okay, you do what you have to; I’m outta here.”

  Suddenly, from inside the truck, the raised voice of the Iranian with the broken legs averted their attention. He spoke rapidly and passionately to the man with the crushed leg alongside, “Massoud, my legs, I cannot move them… the pain… it’s unbearable!”

  Massoud pointed to his own left leg. “I cannot help. I cannot move. Look, Naveed, my leg is smashed too. The bleeding will not stop.” He tried to move but gave up. When he eased the makeshift cloth tourniquet, blood from the severed femoral artery spurted out.

  Naveed turned to one of the surviving Iranians looking on with a pistol tucked into his belt and demanded, “Give me the gun.”