The Vengeance Man (3 page)

"English?"

"We must go - now!"

He stopped, and theatrically walked up to me. "Now? At this time?" He waved an arm at his riotous gang shrieking like a bunch of starlings over the loot.

I thought that a confrontation was near and summoned my 'Lawrence of Arabia strong leader white man bullshit' face.  It's not as good as a bag of gold sovereigns or Maria Theresa thalers,  but all the Middle East appreciates street theatre.  Anyway, I reasoned that Jamal wanted an excuse to retreat without losing face with his gang. He knew the dangers of hanging around waiting for the Iranian response as well as I did.  And if he could blame  his decision on the cowardly white face it would make it easier for him to pull out and break up the looting frenzy.

"Yes, Jamal, at this time." I spoke loudly and theatrically. To add emphasis, a burst of machine gun bullets cracked across the square well above our heads. The women screamed and my two bloodhounds looked at me.

"But the depot is still half full," he said. "My men need another hour, at least."

We were eyeballing each other like a low budget cowboy movie, but both of us had to go through the motions. I spread my open palm, to indicate chagrin.

"I am desolated," I intoned in ritual Kurmanji. "But it is necessary to leave now, before the fanatics can retaliate, Leader of the Free." I added for good measure, "It is as God wills."

Jamal half smiled. "Will you not stay and support me then?"

"No, we have to leave. We, too, have our orders."

We looked at each other for a few seconds. Everyone else in the square was gawping.   Off set another thud and burst of fire punctuated the scene; I tell you, we could have sold tickets, it was so ham.

He shrugged, then turned to his gang. "Load all, my children, and pull back now. The English lord of the desert will not feel secure until he is under the rocks of the mountains again."

A babble of protest rose. Jamal ostentatiously cocked his new 5.56 carbine, a, gift from the taxpayers of the United Kingdom, although they didn’t know it.  He echoed my words,  "Come! It is the will of Allah."

His men, used to such  displays, shrugged and began to make ready to leave, grumbling but cooperative. Jamal winked at me. Secretly the bastard was glad of the excuse to bug out. He knew the score as well as I did.

"Where's your rearguard?" I asked as I swung into my balloon-tyred
Landrover
. Jamal pointed to the depot. At that moment there was another thudding explosion, followed by more gunfire, then round the corner came a group of running men, looking over their shoulders.
They looked grim but elated. I noticed that one figure was half carried, half dragged.

I started the engine, and my two ruffians took up fire positions in the back of the Rover.

"Stop!" bellowed Jamal. We swivelled round to see the problem and Jamal's men stopped bundling the women and stores into their own mixture of vehicles. He strode purposefully over to the group who had just arrived.

We all stared, chafing at the delay. At times like this seconds count.   Jamal reached out and dragged the figure I had thought was wounded to his feet. He was a scruffily bearded, stocky figure, in Iranian police militia uniform, with what looked like a shrapnel wound on the calf from the blood soaked trouser leg and  shredded boot.

They stared at each other for a long moment. In the silence the sudden shots of two kneeling Kurds covering the approaches to the square sounded ominously loud. Clearly the Irani
an
survivors of the little garrison were mustering for a counter attack. "Come on, Jamal", I called.

"No, English, I cannot. Not before I have taken vengeance for the honour of my family."

"What the hell are you talking about, vengeance? There's no time!"

"This man is Mahmut al' Taufiq, the policeman from Umraan." He spat on the ground. "He despoiled my camp in the Zagros with his men four years ago and killed my sister, Jasmin. But first they outraged her.  He must die."

I was stunned. Here we were, about to be involved in our own version of World War Three,  and Jamal was about to indulge in a private revenge killing.

"Don't be a fool; we haven't time." As if to emphasise the point the firefight on the corner broke out with redoubled vigour. "Shoot him if you must, but let's go!" I shouted.

Jamal barked something at the two men holding the hapless Mahmut, and they dragged him to his feet.

"You son of a dog, Mahmut al' Taufiq. You have killed my sister, Jasmin, and for that you must die."

Mahmut was terrified. His eyes rolled like a calf in an abattoir, and spreading dark stains on his trousers drew a series of insults from his captors. At this the prisoner stiffened, then, hurling himself against the restraining arms of his two guards, spat straight in Jamal's face.

The spittle ran down Jamal's cheek and beard, and he became rigid, cold. At that moment I knew Mahmut had sealed his death warrant. The two guards hissed their disapproval. Jamal spoke slowly, raising his voice
for all
in the shabby little
maydaan
or square to hear.

"Hear ye, my friends. Let it be known that I, Jamal al Faud of the house of Faud take blood vengeance for the murder of my sister, Jasmin, by Mahmut al' Taufiq. May Allah strike this from my hand should it not be of the right."

He held up the
k'unja
, and the sunlight flashed bright on the broad, slightly curved blade of the traditional knife of the region. At the corner of the square the two Kurds covering our retreat banged merrily away, their rifles jerking their shoulders, the gleaming cartridge cases ejecting like golden rain onto the sand. In the quiet of the square the figures around the prisoner were frozen, like a tableau.

Jamal broke the stillness by reaching out and jerking Mahmut's head back by the hair. The two guards held him tight and he thrashed violently, struggling for life and freedom.

And this, son of a pig," spat Jamal, "this for Jasmin, flower of the Jebel!" He held the knife to the sky, then slashed briefly, severing the great carotid artery at the side of Mahmut's neck. He screamed as blood fountained into the air, spattering his captors and those of us standing near. The red gusher was, for a second, like a scarlet oil strike, brilliant in the sun.

Jamal stepped quickly back and nodded briefly. The two men released their captive. Mahmut's bloodied hands clawed at his throat and for a second he stared at us, horrified. Then he crashed uncon
s
cious face down in the square. The oxygen starved-brain made him kick and bubble, but he was a dead man. Soon he was just another  bundle of rags in a widening pool of gore spreading thickly amid the dust of the square.  A murmur of approbation rose from Jamal's men.

Dry lipped, I shook my head wonderingly. Jamal's ritual revenge had been cruel and bloody. It had also lost us valuable time. Cold blooded killing sickens me at the best of times and when it threatened us all, it seemed positively self indulgent. Feeling slightly queasy, I noticed a spot of blood from the  red fountain on my thigh. Killing, I’ve seen…
but the ritual throat cutting of the
abattoir
?  Now, that really was different.

I turned away and backed the Rover to the corner, where Jamal’s two covering men were still exchanging fire with an unseen machine gun.  Even as I reversed up, one of the covering pair suddenly snapped his head back and blood sprayed onto the ground as the arched body crashed backwards. Jamal's vendetta had cost one of his own men's lives already.

Cursing, I called to his companion and threw a phosphorus grenade round the corner. It burst in a dense cloud of white smoke and under its cover, the remaining Kurd scrambled onto the back. I gunned the Rover's engine and drove to the farthest corner of the square, where he vaulted off to join his companions. As I caught up with Jamal's Toyota jeep, I saw the doll-like body of Mahmut sprawled on the sand in the middle of the square, just another a bloodstained bundle of clothes on the ground, already crawling with flies. Jamal shouted but it was too noisy. His men fired furiously past us, then he accelerated away.

I glanced back to where dark shapes were beginning to burst through the white smoke screen a hundred metres away. My own two men opened up - a deafening racket. I hurled two more phosphorus grenades and put my foot down. I felt the dry heatglow as they burst, but couldn't look back as I was trying to follow Jamal's tracks and weave the Rover out of town. A flying rock hit the side of the vehicle and banged overhead. I realised that there were no flying rocks, only bullets and then we were out of range and slowing down.

I looked back. Hasak was an inferno. The scruffy houses were shrouded in white smoke and a pall of destruction framed the scene as the black smoke from
the
burning depot boiled up behind. I looked at my two Turks. Thank God they were all right; they were grinning and Yusif clapped me on the shoulder to congratulate me on my driving. The other waved back at the town and patted the 7.62 GPMG on its mounting, raising an interrogative eyebrow.

"Yes," I called, "But only one belt. At the white smoke."

Nusret beamed and fired a spray of ball and tracer into the square. Even at a thousand metres it would discourage pursuit. I saw one of the tracers ricochet like a spark in the sky.
When he had finished, I took a final look around. The column of smoke over Hasak rose for a thousand feet.

To the north west I could see the dust plumes of fast-fleeing vehicles, and the blue line of the mountains beyond. In every other direction there was just barren fields and gravel, shimmering in the heat, dotted with the occasional palm tree.  The blue of the mountains brooded in the distance. The sky was deep blue and cloudless.  The sooner we got to those mountains the better. I let in the clutch and followed Jamal to the north west. The dark blood spot on my trousers didn't go away in the heat, I noticed.

I’d have to wash the blood out.

But first we’d got to get into the mountains.

On the Run. North Western Iran 

It was twenty miles to the protection of the mountains. I was sweating and not just from the heat. The two Kurds in the back must have got cricks in the neck from watching the sky.

I had reckoned on an hour, because the terrain in this remote North West corner of Iran is rough and seamed with scrubby green bushes and small half dry watercourses. Jamal's bug-out plan relied on running hard to the north west as quickly as possible, knowing that any Irani
an
response would probably be from the air, and would assume that the raiders had fled west back into the mountains we had come from.  But the plan relied on getting away quickly. Speed was everything. Jamal's looting and little act of revenge had cost us valuable time. And I was worried about th
at
missing helicopter.

I spent a lot of time glancing over my shoulder at the diminishing smudge that had been Hasak as it fade
d
to the horizon. Jamal's overloaded trucks were spread out in front, each making their best speed for the B'ir Hadi track with its protecting overhangs in the mountains and its deep, safe ravines.  Yusif and Nusret scanned the sky: they knew what to expect.

It was Nusret who saw them first.   He shouted to me above the engine, and waved at the sky. At first I saw nothing, but then noticed two pursuing specks just above the skyline, closing fast. Two!

I glanced at the line of the mountains ahead and then at my watch.   We'd been going for 50 minutes and had made about 15 miles.

I looked back again.   Christ!  They were gaining fast.   Even as I looked, the helicopters split apart and climbed. They'd spotted the fleeing vehicles.

One of the trucks started firing. It was pointless because they were miles out of range.  The line of tracer arched into the sky and fell back. All it did was advertise the firer’s position. Bloody fool… The silhouettes of the helicopters promptly turned towards it and began to swing around our flanks.
The nose of the Rover suddenly dropped with a crash and I cursed as we hit a flat dry water course. By the time I had swerved to the right and regained control, the helicopters were on us. One swept by about half a mile to our right and bored in after the fleeing trucks. Nusret shouted something.

"No!" I shouted, "Don't fire!" and slowed the Rover to a stop. There was a confused thudding ahead and then the 'clop, clop, clop' of stressed rotors as the big helicopters pulled up hard, surrounded by cascades of sparklin
g
tracer.

The dust and smoke of  his rocket  strike boiled among the trucks, and a momentary red glow indicated a hit.  Then the helicopter swept  straight overhead and I realized that he hadn't spotted us, stationary in the slight depression.

He banked in again and this time I saw the darting chain of rockets bursting from his wing stubs.

Again there was the chaos of a successful strike and then he was gone, clattering away to the South, a thin trail of smoke fleeting from his exhaust.  Well, at least someone had hit back.  But where was the other one?

I engaged gear and began to drive north out of the wadi.  A burning truck sprawled on its side about a mile away, its size fantastically distorted in the heat haze.  Scurrying figures darted to and fro between it and a couple of other vehicles stopped nearby.  As we drew nearer I could see  Jamal supervising the transfer of equipment to the waiting trucks.  A high pitched screaming came from the ground by the burning wreck, where a huddle of Kurds tried to give primitive first aid to writhing bodies.  Other lumps lay ominously still.  One of the helpers stood up and stared at us, shocked, his bare arms smeared with gore.

"Ayee", said one of my pair.  Mentally, I agreed; it was a very bad scene.  I slowed to a halt alongside Jamal.  He stared at me blankly.

"OK Jamal?"  He reacted slowly, stunned by the ferocity of it all.  He shook his head from side to side.

"No, English: but where is the other helicopter?"  He waved at the mountains to the North.

"It flew on. Ahead."  I shrugged.  The Iranian tactics were obvious: set out a stop group somewhere ahead to prevent us escaping and then pound us to hell while they brought up a mobile reaction force by helicopter to capture as many as they could. I'd have done just the same.  We were in trouble.

There was a solid "
bump
!"  and a shower of sparks as something exploded in the burning truck.  Jamal came to an abrupt decision.

"You must go on, English. Round up my chickens and lead them through to B'ir Hadi. I will follow."

This was lunacy, and we both knew it. "Don't be a fool, Jamal. Come on; leave this and let's go."

For a moment I thought he wouldn't, then he nodded and began to order his men around. Still together, we drove north west towards the Jebel.

"Ra'aid? Seedee.." called Nusret from behind me. "Where is the helicopter? Surely its fuel cannot last for ever?"

"It's probably sitting on the ground," I shouted over my shoulder. "They may want to move their people around." Another thought struck me. "If they can do that, it means that they've probably got at least one other helicopter to bring their reaction force north."

"Ayee
"
chorused
the pair of them.

"Ayee, indeed," I echoed, and they laughed.

When we got to the entrance to the mountains, I heaved a sigh of relief. At least we couldn't be so easily attacked from the air, now.   On the open plain we had been like flies crawling across a table cloth. Here the deep valleys and mountains offered lots of places to hide. At the first bend, Jamal's motley collection of vehicles were stopped nose to tail. Their dishevelled air was belied by alert sentries. Jamal took command for a quick council of war.

Looking back I can picture that scene as if it was yesterday. After the tension and fear of our flight across the desert, it had an almost euphoric air to it, despite the grimness of our situation. Jamal's vehicle commanders listened attentively while he outlined the options, then gravely heard their views. People talk about  the noble Arab, but frankly, I've never seen it myself; just dirt and deceit. Even with the Kurds, who are different again.  But I suppose that there, in the blue shade of the ravine bottom, with its reddish walls rising sheer for hundreds of feet and the glare of the sun cut off, Jamal stood out like the warrior leader he was.  Looking at him, you could understand how Saladin had carved up the crusaders all those years ago.  Jamal's hawk-like nose and dark beard made him appear dignified and imperious, and his planning was clear and professional. Even I found myself nodding at his tactics as we all kicked the options around. At the end, he addressed us. His studied theatricality seemed right in that situation and inspired confidence.

"Lastly, my children, I alone am to blame for this. I took time for the vendetta, and that time allowed the lovers of evil to smite us. Nevertheless,"  and his eyes flashed in the shadow of his loose turban, "Nevertheless, I took my vengeance as a matter of family honour."   The commanders murmured approvingly.
Ra’ashid
, his favourite, a blonde Aryan, spoke up.

"There is none here who would not have done the same,  Jamal al Faud." He stared at me, daring me to dissent.   I stared back, then slowly nodded.    By the standards of the Kurds, Jamal had done right. The group murmured approvingly again, and Jamal inclined his head in recognition of my support.  
Ra’ashid
smiled briefly, his pale blue eyes bright.

Jamal continued, "So, we head north up the valley and into the pass of Kani Rash.  They cannot strike us from the air in there. We will be as safe as the scorpion under the rocks. And we all know how the English li
kes to be safe under the rocks,
" he added, nodding at me. Even I joined in the laughter.  "I shall lead in the convoy and act as scout vehicle.
Ra’ashid
, you will command the main body.  English - will you guard our rear?"    Again, I nodded.

Jamal walked abruptly away, and Ra'ashid and I looked at each other, knowing that the first vehicle to be banjoed  if any Irani
ans
were lying in ambush would be Jamal's.

We had covered about two thousand metres up the valley, I reckoned, when I heard firing ahead, followed by a series of heavy booms. I waited, then, ignoring my rear guard orders, closed in on the back of the convoy. We rounded a pillar of rock, to a scene of confusion.

The gloomy track had widened here, opening out into a little valley before it plunged back into the mouth of the dark pass leading up deeper into the mountains. The little convoy of trucks was stopped in the sunlight, about a mile ahead, strung along the valley bottom.  Further along the track, and only clearly visible through binoculars, Jamal's leading Toyota lay on its side. From our corner, the panorama stretched away for about 3,000 metres, as the valley ran straight towards the north. Three silent bursts of dust and smoke suddenly fountained up around the distant trucks and a moment later the three explosions echoed round the hills.

Mortars! That explained the booms we had heard. My Japanese radio crackled and
Ra’ashid
's voice, heavily distorted, could be heard giving his orders. I strained to pick up the Kurdish; apparently he was going to rush the entrance to the pass. I waited, engine ticking and looked at Nusret and Yusif who looked back questioningly.   I pointed back down the way we'd come and called  "Watch our rear!"

They nodded, but their gaze strayed to the valley to our front where all the vehicles were now moving and the furious distant popping of small arms fire showed that
Ra’ashid
's charge was on. The  Irani
an
group had selected their ambush point carefully. They had sealed off the way out of the valley like a cork in a bottle, blocking off the open neck of the wadi where it narrowed into the dark gateway into the mountains to the north. Anyone driving north had to go through that pass.

Fortunately, there were not enough Iranians or weapons to plug the gap effectively. I calculated that the Hip helicopter could only move about 15 men at this range;  if half that weight was mortar, men or ammunition, then only 10 at most could be left to fight off  about twenty desperate Kurds and almost as many machine guns.

Through my glasses I watched the drama unfold. Two of
Ra’ashid
's vehicles slowed to a halt, but the rest fanned out on either side of the entrance to the pass. Even at this distance the fury of the fire fight was obvious.  Bright
red and green
tracers bounced off the rocks.  Then the mortar fire stopped, and I could see tiny figures moving up the sides of the pass. After another lengthy exchange of fire, the wadi fell silent. Then
Ra’ashid
's trucks began to move forward.

Suddenly Ali grabbed my arm and I glanced up from my glasses. Jabbering with excitement  he pointed.   Hovering just above the horizon, about a mile off to our right, was the dark blob of a helicopter slowly sweeping round the convoy's flank. Even as I watched, it sank below the line of the cliffs, but the clatter of its rotor could faintly be heard.

Suddenly I realised what I had to do to lend a hand in the struggle. "Quick, Ali - Yusif!  Give me the  SAM!"

For a second they stared, then, galvanised into action, pulled the long tube of a SAM-7 from its sacking roll in the back.  I inspected it carefully, looking for dents or damage. We only had two, one Czech and one Libyan. I don't like the SAM-7. As a surface to air missile it's old-fashioned and under-powered, but at least it's not British. We didn't want to leave embarrassing evidence littering the Irani
an
mountains, after all.  I'd much rather use a US Stinger, personally, but Sal wasn't having any of that. "Deniability, my friend, deniability. There isn't one goddam bit of equipment on this vehicle that is traceable to Uncle Sam," had been his mantra over equipment.  So the old SAM 7  it was.  If I could remember how to use the bloody thing.

I turned on the battery at the front and pulled out the sight. The little ear piece clucked to show it was working. Nusret reached up, and rolling his eyes, removed the canvas end caps from the blast tube which I had forgotten to do.

"Careful, See'dee," he said mockingly.

I grunted and sighted the missile on the rock face where the Hip had disappeared. It was still there; the engine noise carried faintly. I held my breath and swore; "Come on, come on." A trickle of sweat dribbled past my eyebrow and one of the Turks coughed and scuffed his feet . Rashid’s fire fight suddenly poppled away again in the distance.

Then I saw it. The black tadpole shape of a Hip helicopter, rising clumsily behind the line of the jebel and crawling just above the hills.

The seeker head crackled encouragingly but nothing  happened. The Hip was too low, merging into the shadow of the horizon. Suddenly he swung up and did a swooping wing-over to pull away. He'd probably dropped another fire team as a picquet on the hill crest. The earpiece squawked, then gave a clear bell-like tone as it locked on. I pulled the contact handle and the thing exploded in my face.

The trouble with the SAM-7 - as with many of these older shoulder-launched anti-aircraft missiles - is that the rocket motor blows up in your face as the flame and debris burn. Fortunately it doesn't last for long, but I distinctly felt my eyebrows crisp. By the time I remembered that the Soviets used to provide a pair of cheap goggles to protect the firer, the missile was well on its way, along with my most of my eyebrows. Thank God for the scruffy beard. I could smell burnt hair.