Run With The Brave Read Free

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.
    â€œSAMS!” 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.”
    â€œRed 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.”
    â€œThank 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