The Forgotten Land

- Title Page

- Prologue

- Chapter 1

- C hapter 2

- Chapter 3

- Chapter 4

The Forgotten Land

ISBN: 978-1-4657-7610-5

Published by Keith McArdle at Smashwords

Copyright © Keith McArdle 2011

Keith McArdle asserts the moral right to

be identified as the author of this work

This novel is entirely a work of fiction.

The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it,

are the work of the author’s imagination.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be

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in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical,

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"Front cover photograph used with the permission of the Australian Department of Defence. The views of the author do not reflect those of Defence or Government policy and the military response is not necessarily a true and accurate reflection of current or previous Defence procedures."

Front cover photograph taken by: Bernard Pearson.

http://www.bernardpearson.com/

Acknowledgements

I would like to especially thank Dave Sabben for the time and effort he put into helping me with this project. As a young bloke I always had a great interest in the many stories of the Australian Army not only surviving, but succeeding in battle against insurmountable odds. The Battle of Long Tan is certainly no exception, and to have a Long Tan veteran offer me not only the time of day, but some very helpful suggestions, was a great honour.

Thanks also to Simon Knight, Cameron Evers and Peter Massicks for their keen interest, constructive criticism and helpful suggestions.

Dedication

For Simone: my rock, my best friend, my wife. Regardless of what was happening in our life, you never stopped believing.

Prologue

It was a disaster! An utter shambles that served only to tear a country apart. Following the terrorist attacks on America on that fateful day in September 2001, the United States military was determined to capture the mastermind behind it all. A man whose name the world would never forget. Osama Bin Laden.

Somalia, Afghanistan and Pakistan saw large numbers of U.S. troops deployed in search of the rogue. The President’s advisers had under their employ a veritable army of faceless, nameless men and women who fed them information and advice from around the world. Within ten days of the atrocity at the Twin Towers, the President’s advisers were convinced that it was possible Bin Laden may have fled to Iraq. Seven hours later Iraq was under increasing scrutiny and within twelve, the President had given the go ahead to begin operations.

Rather than send more troops into Iraq, the American Department of Defence began injecting enormous funds into the Kurdish community, asking them to hunt for Bin Laden. If they ceased their search, even for a day, the funds would be cut off. Kurdish Peshmerga Forces began purchasing high-tech weapons from America in large quantities. That was when the trouble started.

The Kurds had been persecuted by the Iraqi government ever since Iraq had become a country in its own right. Saddam Hussein was unrelenting in keeping with this historical “tradition”. During the Iran-Iraq war thousands of Kurds, including women and children, had been gassed under Hussein’s orders. The Kurdish people wanted revenge and it came in the form of US greenbacks.

Fierce urban warfare erupted in the streets of every major town and city. The Iraqi Army fought well, but was on the back foot from the beginning. In almost every fire fight they were forced to withdraw from the ceaseless Kurdish onslaught. Within four weeks the Iraqi Army was no longer a cohesive force. Pockets of Iraqi soldiers continued to fight doggedly, but they were quickly overwhelmed. Iraqi civilians were persistently slaughtered and that was when the fleeing began. Tens of thousands of people streamed from the cities, piled onto trucks, walking, travelling any way they could to escape the new threat. Some of these convoys were ambushed and people were slaughtered without mercy.

The country was beginning to fall apart. The UN announced it would restore peace and stability (or the little peace and stability Iraq had before the fighting), but they knew if they moved in they would not be a peace-keeping force. They would be a peace-making force and that went against everything for which the United Nations had been created.

However it was the only way to regain some semblance of order in Iraq.

Chapter 1

Geneva

“What can America offer this peace-keeping force?” the chairman of the UN spat, looking at the representative for the United States of America. The chairman’s voice was easily identified, with its heavy French accent.

“Unfortunately, we have our carrier groups tied up in support of our troops in Afghanistan and Somalia. 130,000 regular troops, 80,000 support personnel, 27 land based helicopter squadrons and 9,000 Special Forces soldiers are involved in the effort. We are way beyond our budget as it is, so unfortunately we cannot offer any assistance in this matter.”

The American representative leaned back in her chair. It was obvious America did not want to help, however they wanted Bin Laden and by stopping the Kurdish uprising, they would be working against themselves. After all, the Kurds had promised they would be on constant lookout for him.

Cameron Eves, a well-spoken Australian, almost smirked as he watched the chairman hold back a rebuttal. A tall, stocky man, Eves was clean shaven with dark curly hair, his eyes glinted with intelligence but his face gave away nothing. He wore a black business suit, a mobile phone resting near his left hand and a glass full of water stood by his right. In plain clothes, enjoying his weekend with his wife, he looked like a typical surfie. Very few people picked up on the fact that he frequently attended United Nations meetings, representing a well-established western country. Even fewer would think that someone who preferred to wear board shorts and old shirts on his days off could have that many letters after his name. Cameron knew as well as any of the representatives there, that America’s military budget was a bottomless pit. To them, 290,000 defence personnel, a carrier task group and 27 helicopter squadrons was a Sunday stroll in the park.

The Americans had managed to put half a million defence personnel and thousands of strike planes and attack helicopters into Iraq in the early 90s. The cost was probably somewhere in the vicinity of several hundred billion dollars.

“So far we have several very generous contributions, but we need more ground troops, specifically specialist soldiers,” the chairman turned towards a mahogany lectern. A well-built soldier was making his way up the dais as the chairman continued, “I shall leave that up to General Billiar to explain.”

“Good morning,” the General began, his accent one of a well-educated Englishman. What was also immediately recognisable, however, were the medals worn on his jacket, there was enough of them to sink a small battle ship.

“My name is General Billiar. Now, we have a situation here in Iraq and a very serious one I might add. A minority group, the Kurds, heavily persecuted for many generations have been given state-of-the-art weaponry… a lot of it.” The General’s eyes rested on the American representative for a moment before he looked away. “The Iraqi Army has been annihilated, and the Kurds, who are being trained and led by the Kurdish Peshmerga Forces, are now killing or shooting at any Iraqi person they come across. Not a good situation, the whole country has become destabilised and the civilian death toll has been estimated at 50,000 and rising by the day, in fact by the hour.”

“What we need are specialist soldiers, Special Forces if you like, who can get in close and observe. If the situation becomes volatile and there is no civilian activity in the area they will rectify it as they see fit. A peace-keeping mission will not work, we need to take a tough stand, but we also need to be careful. We know the Iraqis will be opposed to our presence, but as yet we have no idea how the Kurds view us. If they see us as an enemy or a threat then we have two opponents to contend with. It could get messy.”

“Once we know through our special forces on the ground exactly what is going on then our next main objective is to re-stabilise the country, get the people back into their homes and try to establish a good relationship between the Iraqis and the Kurds. It’s going to be a tough and lengthy operation. Now what we need from you are Special Forces soldiers, trained in desert warfare. We need to observe hostile activities first to get an idea of what is going on. We’ve heard the rumours, but we need them substantiated. The Special Forces soldiers will be our eyes and ears.”

Several representatives raised their hands. The chairman made a note of the number of hands and which country they represented.

“Now we need to befriend the Kurds,” continued the General, “offer them something that will subdue their urge to kill every Iraqi on the spot. There is an Iraqi General, Muhammad Al-Hazareen, who is responsible for the majority of atrocities against the Kurds within the last fifteen years. If we capture him and bring him to trial then this may be enough to appease the Kurds. We will need to make the trial very public too, perhaps with regular pamphlet drops over Kurdish territory with updates on the trial. After all not everyone will have a TV.”

“As far as our intelligence and sympathisers can gather, Al-Hazareen’s being moved to a small town called Barzan for his protection. The town is in northern Iraq near the Turkish border. There is usually a very strong Kurdish presence in this area, but currently most of these people are in the southern areas of Iraq creating havoc. As far as we know, any Kurds in and around Barzan have been told that Al-Hazareen is a Kurdish commander secreted there to avoid capture by the Iraqi Secret Police who want his head. Pretty clever really.

“We need a small Special Forces unit to go in, capture Al-Hazareen and bring him out. The danger of this mission will be great and if it is not planned thoroughly, the soldiers will come back in wooden boxes no matter how good they are. I want to make that very clear. It is a very dangerous mission, but one that is important with respect to the United Nations’ involvement in this area. We need a representative to put soldiers forward.”

Several reps grabbed their mobile phones and talked hushed tones. One by one they hung up. For a moment there was silence in the large room. The General’s eyes moved slowly over the representatives.

It seemed to General Billiar that no country would offer their soldiers willingly. It was quite understandable given the task they were to perform. But, unknown to anyone there, Cameron Eves was still on his phone. When he hung up he looked at the General and slowly raised his hand.

“Sir, I believe we can do it,” Cameron Eves’s Australian accent broke the silence.

“Special Air Service Regiment?” asked the General.

“Yes, Sir,” replied Eves.

The Australian SASR had already gained an impeccable reputation with their involvement with the anti-terrorist force in Afghanistan some months before. In particular Operation Anaconda. When that operation began, small patrols of Australian SASR moved well forward of the advancing US soldiers and set up observation posts under the noses of the Taliban. They reported their observations of enemy movements back to the Americans who then had detailed knowledge of enemy positions, how strong their enemy was, what weapons they carried and the state of their morale. The Australian SASR had played an integral part in the success of the operation, including calling in air and artillery strikes.

The General nodded. “Excellent. That is all, thank you ladies, gentlemen and Mr. Chairman for your time today.”

The General took up his papers and left.

*****

Steve Golburn was relaxing in the afternoon sun, turning sausages and watching his two children play. Kathy, his ten-year-old daughter, was teasing her younger brother, Brent, with a beach ball. Brent was two, with brown curly hair like his father and determined to get his hands on the ball. Kathy put it on the ground in front of him and as he ran towards the ball, she snatched it up and ran away giggling. Brent’s face darkened. Kathy ran to a tree and playfully bounced it on the ground like a basketball. She was an attractive girl with straight blonde hair and blue eyes. She looked like a younger version of her mother.

Steve leaned forward and took his sunglasses off. Brent’s face was red, and tears weren’t far away.

“Kathy, stop teasing him. Let him have the ball,” Steve said. The sausages were almost done and the sizzling smell wafted through the air. There were three other barbecues around them, all overlooking the beach. It was the perfect place for a Sunday afternoon family outing. The distant laughter of children could be heard on the soft breeze. Five or six kids were playing in the sea.

Steve was a well-built, fit man who walked with a confident swagger as if he was without a care in the world. He loved being with his family, after all he was away almost eleven months of the year with work.

“Almost done?” Judy asked as she put the tomato and barbecue sauce on the table.

“Pretty much,” Steve looked across at his wife. They had forgotten to take the sauces with them when they parked the car. Judy had walked back to get them and looked like she needed a drink. Steve poured her a glass of chilled white wine from the esky.

She smiled as he handed it to her.

“Dad this is no fun,” Kathy said, sitting with her legs crossed and her chin on her hands. Brent was giggling as he kicked the ball, running after it and kicking it again.

“Watch out Manchester United,” chuckled Judy.

“Why don’t you go and kick the ball with him,” said Steve. He got up and took a gulp of his VB.

“Ah, that’s better,” he said.

“Hey I forgot to tell you,” Judy said, leaning forward. “You know how I was going to ask for that pay rise on Friday?”

“That’s right I forgot to ask you about that. How did it go?”

Steve listened as she revealed the story, noticing how the sun shone from her hair, and how she touched him on the arm at a particularly important part of the story. She was just as beautiful now as the day he married her.

Judy’s mobile phone rang cutting in on the conversation.

“Hello?”

“Are the sausages done, Dad?” Kathy asked as she placed the beach ball on the ground nearby and sat on it.

“Ah, okay,” Judy sounded disappointed.

“Yup, almost,” he said turning the sausages once more, before arranging them on a plate. “In fact, they’re ready right now,” he added.

“Err, yes he’s right here,” said Judy passing the phone to Steve. She did not look happy. “It’s work,” she said.

He stopped himself from swearing. “Steve Golburn here.”

“Sergeant, it’s Corporal Miller here. Sorry to disturb you, but something’s come up. It’s urgent. We need you in here within the next hour for a quick brief.”

“This ain’t no exercise is it?” Steve asked looking down at his wife. She looked away at this and shook her head.

“No mate, this ain’t no fucking exercise.”

Their marriage was already under stress and this was the last thing Steve wanted to happen. It had got to the stage where Brent thought that Steve was just a good friend who came to visit every now and then. Kathy enjoyed seeing her father but she could quite easily survive without him and had done since she was born. None of this seemed to bother Steve, but Judy knew it hurt him, even if he didn’t show it.

They packed up the plates, wrapped up the sausages and left, their Sunday afternoon in tatters. When they got home, Steve saw them to the front door, kissed the children and then hugged and kissed Judy.

“I shouldn’t be too long baby,” he kissed her once more.

She was trying hard not to cry. “How long will you be gone this time? Two months? Six?”

Bloody hell, here we go, Steve thought, but he knew it was just as hard on Judy looking after the kids by herself as it was for him on operations. He took a deep breath.

“Don’t do that, not now honey. Listen,” he took her hand, “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he said and pulled her to him. He kissed her quickly and then left.

Judy took the kids inside. She sat down on the couch. She couldn’t believe this was happening. Steve had only been home three days after a two-month exercise.

“Mama, I hungry,” blurted Brent, putting a hand on her knee.

“Don’t worry Mum, I’ll make him a sandwich,” said Kathy, leading Brent to the kitchen by the hand.

“And now we’re at number twelve on the all-time old classics countdown. Civil War by Guns ‘n’ Roses. This song came out in 1991 and went straight to the top 40, here it is. Stick around, there’s more to come…” Kathy had flicked on the radio as she made her brother a honey and peanut butter sandwich.

Judy could just make out the words of the song. “Look at your young men fighting,” the voice was gentle, matching the soft guitar work. “Look at your women crying. Look at your young men dying, the way they’ve always done before.”

Judy buried her head in her hands and sobbed. She tried to get a hold of herself before calling out, “Kathy, turn the radio off please, Honey.”

Kathy switched off the radio and came in to see her mother sobbing on the couch. She ran up to Judy and hugged her. “Don’t cry, Mum, please don’t cry.”

Brent stood in the doorway, a sandwich clutched in one hand and honey dripping onto the floor. He looked on with confusion. The world in which he lived was tearing itself apart and he was thankfully still too young to realise it. Judy clutched onto Kathy and rocked back and forth. She wiped her tear-stained cheeks. Would he come home this time?

Judy closed her eyes and tried not to think about it.

* * * * *

Steve sped down the outside lane of the highway towards the centre of Perth. He didn’t know what the mission was about, but from the sound of the phone call it sounded like he might have another war time deployment. It was every trooper’s dream to go on at least one war deployment, but more than one was better than excellent.

He guessed it had something to do with Iraq. The Kurds had become a force to be reckoned with apparently, killing all Iraqis in their sights. It had been splashed all over the news for the last fortnight.

He had enjoyed his time with his family, he always did. But Steve was one of the uncommon men who found themselves in the ranks of the Australian Special Air Service Regiment, the elite soldiers of the Australian Defence Force. The SASR was one of the most elite units of any force in the world. America had some excellent elite outfits, but they were on equal ground with the SASR.

Steve had been in the SASR for almost fourteen years now and was one of the more experienced men in the regiment. At thirty seven, he could still cover fifteen kilometres on foot in under forty minutes. He pulled into the barracks and drove towards the guard at the gate. He pulled out his identification, wound down his window and stopped next to the “slot machine” as some called it. He slipped the plastic card into the machine and slid it downwards. The machine would read the barcode on his ID and check its authenticity. This all took the space of less than a second. The barrier came up.

Once he had parked outside the operations room, Steve walked up the small flight of stairs and made his way to the briefing room door. He could hear muffled voices behind the door. Sweeping his eyes across the room, Steve smiled. They were all old faces. Standing around a map on the large mahogany briefing table were Corporal Dave Hill, Trooper Will McDonald, Lance Corporal Scott Gillman and Trooper Matt Russell. He had worked with these men on many occasions. So much so that many soldiers in their squadron dubbed the small group “The Usual Suspects”.

Dave Hill had a face like it had been chiselled from a rock face, the telling sign that he was a desert specialist. In fact he had spent most of his SASR career on courses in the various deserts around the world. If it weren’t for his green eyes, he could have almost passed for an Arab with his darkly tanned skin and black hair. At thirty one with eight years in the SASR under his belt as well as six years in 3 RAR (Royal Australian Regiment) the Australian paratrooper regiment. Dave Hill was an experienced, tough and disciplined soldier. Not a man for small talk, he only ever spoke when there was something to say.

Will McDonald was a well-built man of twenty five, and easily the youngest on the patrol. He had brown eyes, a pleasant smile and a polite manner. Quite the opposite of what most people thought constituted a soldier in the Special Air Service Regiment. Before joining the SASR Will had spent five years prior as an Assault Pioneer; demolitions were his specialty. When something had to be blown up, his eyes would light up like a child’s. Consequently he could set up some fairly deadly booby traps for the enemy to stumble upon. Most of the troopers who came into contact with him when he first joined the ranks gave him a hard time because of his mild manner.

What they didn’t know was that he was a fearsome fighter with a short temper and could become very aggressive, very quickly. One unfortunate soldier found this out the hard way and spent the best part of a week in hospital as a result. Will McDonald loved deception, particularly when it came to fighting and was a fan of Sun Tzu’s The Art of War. He had never lost a fight. Will was respected by those who knew him.

Will had explained to Steve once that by acting intimidated when someone threatened, you were almost guaranteed a victory. Apparently this gave the attacker a renewed confidence, which of course brought their guard down. Usually they advanced towards Will further, trying to intimidate him more. However, it also meant that the aggressor no longer expected a fight and that gave Will the element of surprise. So in a few short seconds, without throwing a punch and without the attacker knowing, Will had actually become the aggressor and his opponent had become the victim.

It was then that Will’s eyes hardened and he attacked. Steve had only seen him in one fistfight. It had been in a pub and was not a pretty sight. It had lasted only about ten seconds. Will then left quietly when the bouncers asked him to depart. The man that had provoked him, however, took a ride to the hospital in an ambulance. Will McDonald was a good man to have on side in a fire fight; he fought like a rabid dog.

Scott Gillman was rough as guts, with tattoos covering his arms and back. He had a mouth like a sewer and spent most of his money pissing against a wall each weekend. At the end of each weekend he always had a different girl in tow which the boys constantly pulled the piss out of him for. It was a common joke that he had no money because he got divorced fifty-two times a year.

Scott switched on when necessary, but otherwise was always playing practical jokes, getting himself in trouble, or trying to pick fights. He should have been a sergeant by now, but he had clowned around so much that he had not advanced beyond lance corporal. Usually within the regiment, men like Scott were returned to their previous unit very quickly. What kept Scott within the SASR, however, was that he could switch his mind set and focus completely on the task at hand when it was time to be serious. That was what was required of all soldiers and officers within the SASR.

He had started on Will’s case when he had first joined the group, but had learned very quickly to leave him alone. Today his face was focused. His main role and the others hoped they would not need it, was linguist work. Scott was able to talk his way out of trouble in most countries around the world. His brain was a sponge for foreign languages and he could learn the basics of a new dialect within an hour.

When East Timor blew up in 1999, he had been one of the first off the C-130 Hercules. A small group of Indonesian soldiers were standing around giving the aircraft what they considered to be effective protection from enemy attack. Scott walked off the plane and made his way towards them.

“What are you doing here?” one of them asked. To anyone unfamiliar with the Indonesian language, what the soldier had said would have sounded like a string of incomprehensible sounds.

“We’re here to relieve you boys, you need a rest apparently,” Scott replied with a grin. The Indonesian stared at Scott with wide eyes. It was not that what Scott had said had offended him; it was the fact that this tall Australian had answered the question in flawless Indonesian.

Matt Russell, at twenty eight, was short and balding. He had the look of a slow man old well before his time. However, he was in fact incredibly fit and built like a bull terrier; his bright green eyes were alert, missing nothing. All the soldiers present were trained medics, but Matt was a qualified field doctor as well as a sharp shooter. He could remove an appendix out in the field if he had to. He had joined the army as a medic, but had always taken an interest in competing in every shooting event both military and civilian he was able to. Within two years he had been awarded the crossed rifles badge, an indication of his skill with a rifle. Matt had been satisfied with his career as a medic for close to five years, but something, not even he himself knew what it was, lit a fire under him. From that day onwards, he went on every medical course he could, even going so far as to begin an external, part-time degree in medicine. To top it off, after he had completed his degree, he took on the field doctor’s course. He passed successfully and it was then that he showed an interest in the Special Air Service Regiment. For the next year he spent most of his time on fitness and strength work and it wasn’t long before he cut an imposing figure.

Whenever the opportunity arose, he attached himself as a medic to infantry battalions on exercise. He went out bush with them and participated in as much of the exercises as he could. He did this to get a feel for infantry tactics as well as to push himself even further with his physical and mental fitness. At the end of the year he was the fittest he had ever been and had a good grasp of the infantry, which gave him an idea of what he could expect in the SASR if he were to get in. Early the next year he applied for the Cadre Course, the selection course for the Special Air Service held in Perth twice a year. It was 21-days long and it was not uncommon for most participants to lose at least ten kilograms during those three weeks.

The exercises were intensive and pushed the would-be troopers to their limits and beyond. The last day consisted of a twenty-three hour force march, with one hour’s rest at the halfway point. At the end of the force march, with usually half the people left who had started out, a truck was waiting to drive them back to base. As the exhausted soldiers approached, the driver started the vehicle and drove off into the distance, disappearing around a corner. It was the last test of mental strength. Often two or three people fell out in desperation. Those with the strength to continue, hung their heads and kept walking, eventually coming to a bend in the road where they could see the truck about five hundred metres away. This time it did not drive off and the survivors of the course clambered into the back, exhausted, filled with pain, hungry and tired, but happy that they had got through. Out of the eighty-seven that had applied for the course with Matt, only eight made the drive back to base. Matt had made it and although he had only been in the SAS two years, he was one of the best medics and one of the top ten sharp shooters the Special Air Service Regiment had to offer.

Sergeant Steve Golburn was the most senior soldier in the room. He was the team commander and was looked upon almost like a father by the other soldiers. He had been commander every occasion this small group had worked together. He had joined the infantry as a boy soldier of sixteen with the specific intention of one day joining the ranks of the SASR. Steve had been a bit of a lady’s man when he had been younger, but then he had met Judy. Having seen action in Cambodia, Somalia, Rwanda, East Timor, Papua New Guinea, Bosnia, the Gulf and more recently Afghanistan, he was an incredibly experienced soldier and an obvious asset to the Special Air Service Regiment. With fourteen years in the SASR and five years in the infantry before that, he was no stranger to being on call 24/7.

“Well, well, look what the fuck’n cat dragged in,” Scott said, chuckling. “Good to see ya mate.”

“Good to be here,” replied Steve. “So what’s the go?”

“Dunno yet,” Will said. “Ben just got a call as he was about to fill us in.”

Corporal Ben Miller was one of the intelligence soldiers, or “spooks” as they were often called. If they needed maps, satellite images or weather reports he was the man to see.

“How’s the missus and kids going?” Dave Hill’s deep voice broke the short silence.

“Yeah, they’re going really well, mate. Although they were a bit cut when Miller phoned me and told me to get stage side.”

“With you gone it’ll give her more time to get to know her new boyfriend,” Scott laughed. No one else thought it was funny.

“Shut up Scotty,” said Dave.

“Just trying to lighten the fuck’n mood. Feels like some prick’s just died,” said Scott taking out a packet of cigarettes.

“Not in here mate,” Will said. “The room’s a bit small to be filling it with shit-flavoured smoke.”

“If you want to smoke go outside mate,” Steve said, taking a seat.

Scott sighed. “All right, all right, point taken.” He put the cigarettes back in his pocket.

“I’d assume with all the coverage Iraq’s been gett’n, we might be heading for the Iraqi desert,” Matt said looking at the members of the group.

“I hope so,” said Dave. He had not yet passed up an opportunity to undergo desert work. “Although it won’t be much of a desert this time of year.”

“A desert’s a desert,” Scott said, with a matter-of-fact manner.

“No, it’s not dickhead,” said Dave. “It’s summer here in the Southern Hemisphere, so up there it’s winter. You’re looking at hot days and bloody freezing nights. It’s not uncommon for it to rain, sleet and sometimes snow in the desert in that part of the world during the winter months.”

Scott shrugged. “Ah, we’ll be right, a few electric blankets, a couple o’ wood stoves and a few heaters should see us through.”

“Smart arse,” said Will with a smirk.

“Righto, sorry about the delay fellas,” said Ben Miller, closing the door behind him. “Steve! Great to see you. Right, now that we’re all here I may as well get straight into it.”

Miller moved to the head of the table and laid out more maps, satellite images and other pieces of information.

“Now, if you’ve been watching the news, you’ll all know that Iraq is in a world of shit, it’s falling apart by the day. The United Nations wants a peace-keeping force in there immediately. They’ve already started sending advance troops into Iraq, mostly Special Forces who are observing and communicating with the UN. As you guys might know, the Kurds got their hands on multi-million dollar equipment and weapons from the Americans. They’re now killing any Iraqi soldier or civilian they come across. The whole country is quickly turning into a disaster area. Not a good situation, obviously. To begin with, America refused to help the UN. However, since then, they have offered one carrier task force group which is two days from commencing operations, some transport planes, about one hundred special-forces troops, five squadrons of attack helicopters, namely Apaches and two squadrons of F-16 fighters. Okay so that’s where the country stands at the moment.”

“Now that we all know what’s happening in Iraq, we’ll move onto the why. Quite simply, America wants Osama Bin Laden and from the reports written following interrogations of his high ranking officers, they seem to think it he would have either fled to Somalia or Iraq. “America as you know from CNN moved into Somalia with force some weeks ago.

“So the hunt began, spearheaded by the extremely motivated Kurdish Peshmerga Forces. Having said that, the Iraqi Army has pretty much been decimated. That’s how the country started falling apart. So your mission is basically one of propaganda. There is an Iraqi officer, General Muhammad Al-Hazareen, who has been responsible for Kurdish atrocities for almost twenty years. If you can observe him, move in and then capture him, the UN can put him on trial for crimes against humanity in a very public court appearance. The UN is hoping this will quell the Kurdish uprising somewhat and give them some room to move. The next mission for the United Nations will obviously be to try and establish a good relationship between the Kurds and Iraqis. Your mission is going to be hard and incredibly dangerous, which is why you have been allotted ten days of planning time before you depart.”

“Ten days!” blurted Scott. “Fuck’s sake, my arse has already gone to sleep and it’s only been about ten minutes!”

“I’m afraid it’s ten days or you don’t go,” Ben said, “Colonel Bracker, the man who will be helping you to plan your mission does not want, in his words, ‘a fuck up’.”

“That’s a very basic run down on your mission. I’ll leave the planning of the mission to yourselves and Colonel Bracker, who’ll be here,” Ben looked at his watch, “in about half an hour.”

The room was silent. They had only met Colonel Bracker briefly on a handful of occasions. An SASR trooper during Vietnam, Bracker had worked his way up the ranks, before applying for, and receiving, his commission as an officer in the Special Air Service Regiment. He had seen an unbelievable amount of action and the men were honoured that such a man would take time out to help them with their mission.

“Bloody hell, so we finally get to meet the big man,” said Will softly. It had not been a question and the others remained silent, still stubbed that they were about to meet the most highly decorated soldier in the history of the SASR. The man had seen operational service in Vietnam, Korea, Borneo and a two-year attachment to the British SAS meant he had seen service in The Falklands War. Once he had returned to the Australian SASR, Bracker saw action in the First Gulf War, Somalia, Cambodia, East Timor, Afghanistan and the Second Gulf War. He was literally a living legend, and when he retired would probably have enough travel experience to work as CEO of Lonely Planet.

“Righto,” Ben stood up. “I’m off, if anyone wants to contact me for any reason, my number and extension is up on that board over there.” He pointed to a pin board behind Steve, which had various pieces of paper attached to it, one with two phone numbers circled in red ink pen.

“Not a problem mate,” said Steve. “Thanks for straightening everything out.”

Ben left and the guys started shooting the shit, catching up on each other’s lives. What they had missed, what they had heard and what they thought about each other. After a while and a light hearted argument between Matt and Scott, the powerful hum of a V8 was heard outside, before the engine fell silent. They could hear someone walk up the stairs and move into the foyer. Steve stood as the door opened.

“Glad you could make it, Sir,” he said by means of welcome to Colonel Bracker.

Bracker was a tall, fit looking man. The sandy coloured beret, a famous trademark of the SASR sat on his head like it had been designed for him. His pale blue eyes were cold and penetrating, his face seemed hard and unforgiving.

“Thank you Sergeant Golburn,” said Bracker. His voice was deep and authoritative. He sat in the seat where Ben had been sitting and looked at each soldier in turn.

“So you’re the usual suspects they all talk about!” The Colonel said. “Let’s start shall we?”

Chapter 2

“I’m not going to take too long here today,” said Colonel Bracker leaning back in his chair.

Fuck’n hope not, Scott thought, playing with a pen.

“Now before we start, we need to determine our worse case scenarios. It’s always the smart soldier who plans with the worst in mind. It might sound negative and defeatist, but if the shit hits the fan, he can act instinctively and immediately. As you know, if he doesn’t plan in this way then he’ll probably find himself sitting on his arse trying to work out what he should do now that the chances of going home in a wooden box have multiplied. I don’t need to tell you that it’s not a good situation to be in.”

Colonel Bracker leaned down and pulled five books out of a bag at his feet. He began to distribute them to each of the men. Steve was not familiar with the title. On the cover of the book was a colour photograph of the sun rising up over the flat, arid plain of the Iraqi desert. Above the image were the dark yellow words Iraq: The Forgotten Land.

“Every man is to read this book,” the Colonel said as he passed a copy to Scott.

“Not a problem, Sir,” replied Scott as began flicking through the pages. “It might be for Will though. Too many words and not enough pictures!”

The Colonel jumped in before Will could manage a response. “Let me just say that this is not a fucking book club! We’re not going to sit around with cups of herbal tea arguing about each other’s opinions regarding paragraph two-hundred and twelve.” He paused for a moment shooting a couple of well-aimed glances at Scott and Will. “This is a very dangerous time of year to be working in Iraq. The temperature can range from blisteringly hot to extremely cold within a few short hours. Understanding the terrain and the winter weather conditions will help you before you disembark.”

Bracker tapped one of the books on the table. “One thing that is not mentioned in here is the town of Barzan itself. There are a lot of strange stories and a hell of a lot of mythology that surround the town and indeed that particular area of Iraq. Something about strong magic imbued in the land. If what the stories say is based on fact, then a group of Gods took mortal form in, or near, Barzan.”

Scott sniggered. “Yeah I know it’s a bit hard to swallow and we all know it’s a lot of bullshit, but if you ever mingle with the locals, just bear in mind that the land to them is sacred, so don’t offend them!”

“How long have we got to read it?” asked Steve.

“Three days,” the Colonel answered. “I am being extremely generous because I don’t want you buggers skimming through it.” Stretching down once more, Colonel Bracker produced five notebooks, each with a pen. He dropped them onto the centre of the table and gestured towards them. “I am telling you to suck eggs because being good soldiers, I’m sure you all have a notebook and pen on you already. However, with a second notebook and pen there is no excuse. Take notes about the terrain, the weather, what customs or traditions the various locals hold dear or anything else you might think is pertinent to the upcoming mission.”

“So it is a fuck’n book club then!” muttered Scott quietly.

“Except that your exam is a practical exercise and not a fucking essay, soldier!” Bracker retorted. Bracker stared at Scott sternly. “Any questions?”

The men collectively indicated the negative. Colonel Bracker stood up. “Right,” he said, walking towards the door holding his bag. “I’ll see you all back here in three days, ten hundred hours sharp. Make sure you’re here,” he said over his shoulder. His footsteps faded as he strode away.

Steve stayed on base that night and began reading Iraq: The Forgotten Land. The author, Simon Nite, was a British freelance journalist based in Iraq who had reported for most of the major media organisations in the West over a number of decades. The book was acclaimed by many as one of the definitive works documenting both the country and its people, and was on the recommended textbook lists at many universities and institutes across the world. Nite was also a well known anti-war activist who would be shocked to learn that his work would have a military application.

There was certainly more to Iraq than Steve had previously thought. It seemed most lived in a society that possessed technology that rivalled that in western countries. It was the locals and their history, however, that interested Steve most of all. Living in small communities out in the country, keeping to themselves and owning no real high-tech items were the Bedouin. Steve learned that a Bedouin was obliged to accept, feed and water any man or woman who approached their dwelling, even if they were a sworn enemy. If they were a sworn enemy, the Bedouin were unable to go after them until the food and water they had given their guest had passed through their system. Eight hours was usually the agreed time. A visitor was permitted to stay with the Bedouin for three days before they could even ask the visitor’s name. They had some strange customs, but they sounded like a tough but relatively friendly people. Amongst the Bedouin were several groups of bandits who attacked, stole from and at times killed members of Bedouin encampments.

Steve also discovered that the Kurds, an Aboriginal-like people who lived mostly to the north of the country, had been persecuted by the Iraqi military from time immemorial. In fact, during the eight year Iran-Iraq war, thousands of them had been herded together by Saddam Hussein’s military and gassed, Hitler style. Other Kurdish villages had been subject to the testing of Iraqi long-range chemical assaults, their populace exterminated by scud missiles attached with chemical warheads. It was little wonder that the Kurds were so angry and vengeful towards the Iraqi people. The book went on to cover tourist attractions within Iraq, as well as the culture, history and religion that could be found within the borders of the country.

Steve did not sleep that night. He continued to read and take notes. By midday the next day he had read the book, taken pages of notes and was bone weary. He drove home and spent the rest of the next two days with his family. As was the policy within the regiment, he was not to tell his family where he was being deployed. But the families of members of the SASR were not stupid, they watched the seven o’clock news and were acutely aware of which hellhole their partners were about to be sent.

The day before he was to deploy Steve took his family to Cottesloe beach. The sky was a deep blue, made more so by the thin wisps of cloud that stretched to the horizon. The ocean surged and swelled, waves breaking onto the shore, the seawater advancing across the sand with a soothing hiss before it fled back into the ocean, ready for the next wave that sent it spilling forward again. He loved the beach, and so did the kids. He smiled as he watched them frolicking in the shallows. Judy sat on a beach towel watching them, their picnic lunch safely stowed away in an esky beside her.

“Careful,” Steve chuckled as Brent was bowled over by a wave. He leaned down and picked his son up out of the water. The toddler wiped his face and giggled. Steve walked out further so the ocean crashed about his thighs, Brent tucked under one arm giggling and squirming.

“Ready, Son?” grinned Steve, as he lowered Brent into the water, but keeping a firm grip on him. When the next wave was almost upon them he threw his son into the air and caught him. The boy screamed with excitement.

“Ready?” he chuckled as Brent waved his arms in the air happily. He lowered his son into the water so that only his head was above water. The wave coming towards them must have looked huge from Brent’s perspective. At the last moment Steve threw him up into the air again. After fifteen minutes of this game and growing tired, Brent asked to join his mum. Carrying him up to Judy, he placed his son onto his mother’s lap, before heading back into the water to join Kathy.

“Race ya, Dad!” called Kathy, readying herself to catch an incoming wave.

“You’re on!” Steve smiled. He waited until the wave was almost upon him then threw himself into the water and began swimming freestyle until he felt the surge of the water around him. Increasing his speed he could feel his body being swept along by the wave and kicking forward, thrust his arm out in front of him. With the power of the wave behind him, it felt like he was flying through the water at incredible speed. As he neared the beach the power of the wave subsided and he felt the sand beneath his feet. Standing up he noticed Kathy had easily beaten him.

“You’ll have to do better than that, Dad!”

“I was just warming up,” he replied, pretending to stretch his arms.

“Yeah right!” Kathy said.

“Now I’ll try again, for real this time,” he said, with a wink.

Kathy beat him again.

“Takes us oldies a few goes to warm up,” grinned Steve, “give me a few more waves and I’ll put you to shame!”

“Okay, you’re on, Dad!”

Again Kathy won.

Steve came spluttering to the surface and climbed to his feet.

“At least I don’t cheat!” said Steve with a grin.

Kathy gasped. “I didn’t cheat,” she called, throwing a piece of seaweed at him. The seaweed splattered across his head, giving him instant dreadlocks. Kathy burst into laughter. He threw the seaweed aside with a grin.

They caught waves together for another half an hour, Steve winning only a handful of times, his daughter beating him hands down. After they had tired of the game, they walked hand in hand up the beach to where Brent and Judy waited.

As the water dried upon his skin, Steve could feel the salt crystals forming, and rubbed them from his shoulders. He accepted a ham, tomato and cheese sandwich from Judy with a smile.

The family ate together in silence, watching as the waves crashed against the beach with soothing rhythm. The tide was coming in, and within twenty minutes the sound of the ocean escalated as the water reached closer.

“Want to go back in?” asked Steve.

“No thanks, Dad,” said Kathy. She was lying back on a towel, a hat covering her face from the sun. Brent was asleep on a towel. Judy had covered him with a thin blanket.

“What time are you leaving?” Judy asked.

“Early,” replied Steve. “Probably five.”

“Going to say goodbye to the kids this time?” Judy asked.

Steve sighed gently. Here we go again, he thought.

“I do every time. Just because they are asleep most times doesn’t mean I don’t say goodbye.”

“Then I have to deal with their questions in the morning, trying to explain where their dad has gone and for how long, when I don’t even know?”

“Bloody hell Judy, do you want me to shake them awake and tell them I’m going away for seven months and that they might not ever see me again? How does a child process that? Very badly is my guess.”

“You could at least wake them up and tell them you’ll see them soon!”

“I kiss them on the head and tell them I hope to see them soon,” said Steve looking out to sea.

“That’s not the same thing!”

“Isn’t it?” Steve asked, turning to face her. “Are you sure about that? Because where I’m going the best I can do is hope to see you again. If I promise more than that it’s nothing but a lie!”

Judy turned away. Her shoulders shuddered as the tears came. She cried silently, trying not to disturb her children.

“I’m sorry babe,” Steve said pulling her to him. “I’m sorry,” he said again, kissing her hair.

The family drove home in silence.

That night they watched Shrek together, and although Kathy had seen it several times before, it was the first time Brent had seen the film. Whilst the kids and Steve giggled together, Judy huddled quietly against her husband.

In the morning, he woke early and walked quietly into the kitchen to make himself breakfast. Judy appeared in her nightgown bleary eyed.

“I’ll be ready shortly,” she said.

“Okay,” he said with a smile.

At 06:30 hours, Judy drove Steve into the base. He leaned down next to the driver’s side window, an overnight bag containing some belongings slung over his shoulder. “We’ll be here for another six or seven days before we leave. I’ll see if I can get home again soon,” he said reassuringly. Judy nodded her head but didn’t reply. She was too busy trying to hold back tears. Steve smiled and kissed her before turning and walking in the direction of the briefing room.

“Take care Steve, I love you,” she called, her voice shaking. He did not hear her. As it was each time this scene played out, her whole body was numb and the familiar, doubtful feeling of whether she’d ever see Steve again filled her mind.

He turned back and waved as he continued walking backwards. “Love you babe,” he said as the doors to the building swallowed him up. He stopped to watch Judy through the small window in the door as she turned the car around and drove out towards the front gate.

Steve opened the briefing room door and stepped inside to see the disgruntled face of Scott Gillman. Will McDonald was behind him, clutching a cup of coffee and chuckling.

“Ya dickhead,” Scott blurted. “I asked for coffee, two sugars and milk. Never heard of the NATO standard cup of coffee? Christ, if ya want something done, do it yourself.”

“Sorry Scott, I could have sworn you said black tea,” smirked Will.

“Dickhead,” Scott repeated as he poured the tea down the sink.

“Steve, how ya going mate?” Will said.

Scott looked around. “Hey mate,” he called.

“G’day boys,” Steve greeted them, slinging his bag onto a chair.

“For Christ’s sake!” Matt said, throwing the Army newspaper he had been reading down on the table. “Our frigg’n union team just got flogged again, that’s twice in a row!”

“Who’d we lose to this time?” asked Will, taking up the paper. On the front cover was a picture of a young soldier who was hesitantly abseiling down a cliff. A physical training instructor was above him, standing on the ledge and urging him on.

“We lost to those poofters in the RAAF,” replied Matt. “That’s twice they’ve beaten our team this year.” The disappointed medic looked up, “G’day mate,” he said to Steve.

“Where’s everyone else?” Steve asked.

“Dave said he’s been held up in traffic. Should be another twenty minutes or so.”

“Bullshit,” chuckled Scott Gillman with a fresh, steaming cup of coffee in his hand. Everyone knew that if Dave was going to be late, he’d ring them on his mobile and tell them he was held up in traffic. He’d even had the gall to do it on exercise last year out in the Woomera desert. The truth was he’d rung them as he sat reading the paper at a petrol station outside town, with a sandwich and a coke to keep him company. He had told them he’d endeavour to get the 4 x 4 Land Rover back to them as soon as he could. Dave was a solid soldier, but like many of them in the SASR, he had a colourful sense of humour.

Dave arrived in the briefing room ten minutes later, followed shortly afterwards by Colonel Bracker. The group launched into the planning of their mission almost immediately, beginning with what they had extracted from the book. The planning of a mission was the most important part of an operation. Success or failure did not rely on heroic actions on the battlefield, but by thoughtful and meticulous planning that incorporated almost any scenario that could happen to a patrol while they were deployed on operation. In that way, if a problem did arise and had been planned for, the patrol could react effectively and immediately.

The planning of a mission by SAS soldiers was far different to the way it was planned in the regular army. Soldiers in the regular Australian Army were told what they were doing and why. Most of the NCOs or officers planning a mission in the SAS however, told the group what was intended and would then ask the group for their opinion and whether there could be any improvements or alternatives. They would then go ahead and collectively plan the mission. This type of open floor method of planning was not however looked upon kindly by some SAS members who tended to stick to the old “This is the way I want it done and that’s the end of it”. Both methods however had their pros and cons.

A newly recruited officer fresh off continuation training found this out the hard way. He had spent the best part of two days by himself, planning the storming of a large office block, which, according to the exercise, had been taken over by terrorists. Even though it was an exercise, in the eyes of the SAS the threat was taken very seriously.

The officer had briefed the group of soldiers who would be carrying out the entry and clearing of the building. When he asked the group for their opinion, the listening soldiers immediately scrapped the plan and began working on another. It had been a waste of two days, and if it had been a real situation, would probably have seen loss of life for both the hostages and soldiers. The reason the plan was scrapped was because, upon extensive viewing of the photographs provided, the door through which the officer planned for some of the attacking force to enter, opened outwards. It had been as simple as that. A door opening outwards took longer to enter. Because of its outward swing, it worked against the momentum of the physical forces created by the instruments that the soldiers would use to open it, that is, an explosive charge, shotgun blasts to the hinges, or a kick. An outwards swinging door may only take a fraction longer to enter than a door that opened inwards, but that pivotal moment may be enough to allow a terrorist standing near the door to bring his weapon to bear and fire. The element of surprise was the main weapon in anti-terrorist operations.

In a mission being planned by the SAS, it was not because it was an elite force that the men involved put forth their opinion. In the regular army, the youngest soldiers were between seventeen and eighteen. Whereas the youngest soldiers in the regiment would probably fall between twenty-three and twenty-five years in age. All members of the SAS regiment had a wealth of experience and knowledge in various areas of both military and non-military life. It was for this reason that soldiers’ input in the planning of a mission was invaluable and could be the difference between life and death out in the field.

Over the next six days, Colonel Bracker and the five soldiers worked tirelessly on the planning of the mission, starting early and finishing late. They could leave nothing out. They planned all aspects of the mission including weather factors, the terrain on which they would be working, what clothing and equipment to take, communications, and local inhabitants both human and non-human. It was draining work, but they knew just how important it was. They tested hypothetical situations and determined the advantages and disadvantages of their choice of resources in each of those scenarios. Everything was methodically studied from weapons to locations, from warm weather clothes to signals, photographs and maps of the area, satellite imagery, and weather patterns. They discussed the rendezvous point for the resupply. If they needed to stay longer than necessary, they would need more water, food and fuel for their chosen vehicle. This would be brought in by helicopter upon radio request.

Finally on the sixth day, Colonel Bracker wrapped it up. “I think we’ve just about finished,” he said, taking a sip from a steaming cup of coffee. “I had intended for the planning phase to be ten days, three days studying the book and seven on the mission planning, but there’s only so much we can plan for. Take tomorrow off, which is Friday if my brain hasn’t abandoned me. Tie up any loose ends you might have, say goodbye to friends and family, and for fuck’s sake don’t be late on Saturday morning. It’ll be your fuck’n arse if you are!” he said, looking at each of the men in turn. “Go out and have a good time tonight, enjoy yourselves, but stay out of trouble.”

“Thanks for helping us out, Sir,” Steve said, extending his hand.

Bracker shook his hand and nodded. Each of the men took their turn to do the same. Afterwards, he gathered his things and made his way to the door. He turned as he opened it. “Best of luck with your mission men. I hope you nail that bastard.”

“Right,” said Scott. “It’s beer o’clock, time to get shit faced.”

Steve held up his hands for silence. “Okay fellas, go out tonight and have fun, but do not be late Saturday morning. I repeat do not be late Saturday. Because if you are then it’s not only your arse, it’s my arse too. Right, get out of here and enjoy yourselves.”

“What, you’re not coming with us?” asked Will.

“No, I’m taking Judy and the kids out to dinner and a movie,” replied Steve.

“Ah, doing the old man thing,” said Dave, nodding sagely, dodging Steve’s retaliation with a chuckle.

“I don’t get to see them very often,” Steve said. “So may as well make the most of it. Who knows, I might even get lucky,” he said with a wink.

“That’s fair enough. I think we’re all hopin’ to get lucky mate,” Scott called from the briefing room door.

“Which movie are you going to see?” asked Matt, slinging his bag over his shoulder.

“I saw the ad for Ice Age 2 on the TV the other night. Looks like a funny movie,” replied Steve.

“Go and see that movie,” Matt said. “That is one of the funniest movies I’ve seen in a bloody long time. Christ, it cracked me up like you wouldn’t believe. I went with Tanya and she wanted to take her son with her, so we couldn’t go and see an action packed ‘I’ll be back’ movie. I thought it’d be a boring kid’s movie, but man was it funny. Good choice mate, go and see it.”

“You’ve talked me into it,” said Steve with a grin.

“Anyway, we’ll leave you to it,” said Matt. “Have a good time.”

“Say g’day to Judy and the kids for me,” said Will, as he followed Matt and Scott out the door.

“Will do mate.”

“I’ll see ya Saturday, Steve,” said Dave, waving from the door. “In the mean time, don’t strain yourself old man,” he said.

“Get out of here, Sunshine, before I whip your arse,” Steve threw a scrunched up ball of paper at Dave.

Steve cleared the table, straightened the chairs, grabbed his gear and left. This was the only time off he would have with his family, probably for some months, and he was going to make the most of it.

Chapter 3

At 0900 hours on Saturday, the soldiers, Land Rover and equipment were ready to depart from RAAF Base Pearce, just outside of Perth. The vehicle was a 6x6 Land Rover, which had been modified for special operations. On the bull-bar were attached six small smoke mortars, which, if the patrol came into heavy contact, could dispense a smoke screen and allow them to withdraw rapidly. There were also infra red headlights for night driving. The roof and roll bar had been cut off, the windscreen removed and a gun mount placed two metres behind the driver and passenger at the same height the roll bar had been and upon which a .50 Calibre heavy machine gun was attached. The designation .50 described the size of the round the weapon fired. In this case it fired a round half an inch in diametre, or in metric 12.5 mm in diametre. In no uncertain terms, it was a huge round that could do severe damage to medium skinned vehicles and make a bloody mess of enemy soldiers. The operator stood behind the .50 calibre machine gun able to swivel the machine gun in a three hundred and sixty degree arc. The soldier operating the .50 Cal was standing at the highest point of the vehicle, and therefore vulnerable to enemy fire. But being an unconventional force, the SASR operated differently to most others, which inherently brought with it an element of protection to the .50 Cal gunner. For much of the time, unless they were blatantly ambushed, the enemy were not aware of the presence of SASR patrols. The vehicle was armed in such a way that if a contact ensued, the patrol had sufficient firepower to either overcome the enemy, or break contact and withdraw. A Mag 58 machine gun was mounted in front of the forward passenger to cover the immediate front. Unlike the .50 Cal, this machine gun carried smaller, 7.62mm rounds, and the mount could only swivel from the two o'clock to the ten o'clock position. The Mag 58 was not a light machine gun, but nor was it as heavy as the .50 Cal. The 7.62mm round could effectively hit a target at two kilometres. It could decimate thin skinned vehicles and between the Mag 58 and .50 Cal, the Land Rover could pack a hard punch.

The Rover also carried six 25 litre Jerry cans full of fuel and camouflage netting for the vehicle. They were able to take more warm weather gear, food, water and ammunition than if they had been on foot with packs, weapons and webbing.

The Land Rover would do little to ward off the elements should it begin to snow or rain, but then it had not been modified for comfort in mind. The Land Rover and other vehicles setup in a similar fashion had been used in warlike operations since World War Two, where the British SAS had been formed in the deserts of North Africa.

The soldiers were dressed in multi-cam, the new uniform which replaced the Australian Disruptive Pattern Desert Uniform (DPDU). The soldiers wore body armour, chest webbing and assault helmets to which night vision goggles, or even helmet cams were able to be attached. They were also well armed. Steve and Will carried M4 carbine assault rifles (which fired a 5.56 mm round) with M203 grenade launchers (a 40mm round) attached beneath the barrel. The weapons had Advanced Combat Optical Gunsights (ACOG) attached to them. The ACOG sights were 4x magnification and allowed the weapon to fire accurately out to 600 metres. For close quarter work (like clearing buildings), much smaller holographic sights were attached on top of the ACOG sights. The rifles were fitted with suppressors which reduced noise and flash. If a soldier happened to be lying prone, the suppressers reduced the amount of dust kicked up when he fired a shot.

Dave and Scott carried the Minimi light machine gun, which also fired the 5.56 mm round. Having ACOG sites fitted meant they could also engage targets out to 600 metres with accuracy.

Matt, being the sniper of the patrol carried an M-110, which was a semi automatic sniper rifle that fired the 7.62 mm round. The weapon was accurate out to 1000 metres.

One piece of equipment they should have been issued was a FGM-148 Javelin anti-tank missile launcher. The Q-store had none left in their armoury. More were on backorder, but this did not help Steve. They had been issued a handful of M-72 Light Anti-Armour Weapons (LAW) which fired a 66 mm unguided anti-tank rocket. Not as effective as the Javelin, but it would have to do.

A C-130 Hercules would fly in from RAAF Base Richmond at 0930 hours, refuel, then load on the Land Rover as well as the five soldiers. This was to be the beginning of their long, uneventful journey towards the United Arab Emirates and ultimately Iraq. The half-hour wait gave the men time to go over everything again. They checked their equipment, weapons and the vehicle. It was important they had the correct supplies and that the equipment they had was undamaged.

As they finished their inspection a strong English accent broke the silence.

“Righto lads, gather in, gather in there!”

Steve grinned as he watched Pete Massicks stride out towards them, with a large camera around his neck. Pete was a civilian contracted by the Australian Defence Force as a photographer and was beyond exceptional. He had been a Royal Marine Commando during the Falklands War and had discharged four years after the conflict, after which he moved to Australia with his wife and child.

Although he had been a soldier, photography had always been his passion and his forte. Pete reminded Steve of an American war journalist, whose passion had been photography but whose name he did not know. The American photographer had stood out on the deck of one of the United States aircraft carriers, watching Japanese dive-bombers swooping towards them. American sailors were sprinting for anti-aircraft guns or diving for cover. But this man stood with his eyes fixed on the closest Japanese dive-bomber and he watched through the camera lens as it released its bomb and pulled up out of the dive. He followed the bomb’s rapid descent and snapped it just as it exploded. The 250-pound bomb exploded fifteen metres from the photographer, killing him instantly. Miraculously, the camera and photograph survived.

On numerous occasions in Bougainville, Somalia, Bosnia and East Timor he had put himself into danger simply to take authentic photographs. Steve had a feeling that he did it for the rush. When Australian soldiers were involved in a fire fight with Indonesian forces on the border of West Timor and East Timor, Pete Massicks had more than involved himself. He was in the passenger seat of a Land Rover 110 when the first shot was fired. The driver stopped and signalled the Rover behind him to reverse before reversing himself.

But Pete opened the door and yelled, “Fuck that mate,” over his shoulder to the driver before sprinting towards the fire fight. He had a video camera with him, which bounced around as he ran. He followed the Australian soldiers as they fired and moved forward, capturing most of the platoon assault on camera. The fire fight did not last long. The only casualty was an Indonesian policeman who had died instantly from a shot in the head.

Pete waved the five soldiers into position in front of the Land Rover. “Righto, machine gunners on the outside. You riflemen kneel down in the middle there. That’s it. Good.” Pete took several photos before sitting down and chatting with the men.

At 0926 hours the loud, high pitched roar of the C-130 drifted towards them from the other end of the runway. It was an H-model aircraft, the camouflage paint and the emblem of the rearing stallion on the tail plane indicated that it was a 36 Squadron Herc. They had all worked with 36 SQN countless times. The C-130s of 36 SQN had seen more action in one year than the FA-18 Hornets had in their entire RAAF service. One C-130 was almost shot down in one of the troubled areas of the world in 2002 when an American SAM site decided in all their wisdom to “paint” their lasers on it.

The aircrew had reacted immediately. A dull clunk, and many more in quick succession, signified that flares had been fired. The pilot turned the aircraft steeply away from the flares in the vain hope that if the Americans did fire, the heat produced from the flares would draw the missile away from them. While he was doing this, the pilot was speaking to the SAM site explaining who they were and where they were going. Later, the same aircraft was shot at by heavy enemy ground fire on one of its missions. The Hercules, often regarded as a lumbering, lethargic plane was in fact at the sharp end of Australia’s defence force.

Steve had been onboard when one of the 36 SQN C-130s had performed fighter evasion tactics during an exercise. He had always thought of the Hercules as a flying bus but was amazed by the agility of the aircraft. He had almost reached for the spew bags more than once. As it turned out, the fighter plane that had been tracking them was shot down by a friendly fighter after the aircrew notified them of the enemy’s position. It had only been an exercise but it demonstrated the sheer power and performance of the C-130. Not only had they come through unscathed but the fighter plane looking to shoot them down had been “destroyed”. The exercise also proved the incredible skill and professionalism of the aircrew.

The soldiers took out the hearing protection they had been given earlier. It was a simple matter of rolling the foam-like cylindrical material between forefinger and thumb to condense it. Once it was placed in the ear, it would re-expand to its original size inside the ear cavity. It was an effective and cheap means of hearing protection. The Hercules turned off the runway and taxied towards the marshaller who signalled to the pilot with two large batons where and when he wanted him to stop.

The lumbering beast came to a halt less than twenty metres from the waiting soldiers. After half a minute or so the roar of the engine began to fade.

A refuelling truck drove out and began moving towards them. A power cart was driven out and the rear ramp was lowered. Once the aircraft had been refuelled, the Land Rover was loaded, the soldiers boarded and the aircraft departed. The aircraft touched down in Dubai after what seemed an eternity, with several stops to refuel. The soldiers had slept some of the way, the rest of the time they read or played cards. The next day the soldiers were flown on to Qatar, where they stayed for four days before departing again.

* * * * *

The next leg of the trip would be another lengthy journey. Their flight, this time by United States Air Force Hercules, would take them over Jordan and into Turkey where they would eventually touch down at the air base outside Colemerik. It would only be a few hours’ drive from there to their objective at Barzan, across the border.

“She’s not any old Herc,” boasted the American load master as he walked with the five soldiers across the tarmac.

“What d'ya mean?” Steve asked.

“We're trialling an airlift element of the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment.” The loadie pointed at the C-130. “This is one of them. We're trialling it to see how feasible it would be to drop heavy weapons or vehicles at high speed off to soldiers on the ground who’re in the shit. They’ve been going for about four months now. I saw them drop three Hum Vees out the back of one of the Hercs to a waiting platoon on exercise about a week ago. The Hummers landed about fifty metres or so from them, which is pretty good. Awesome sight. They’re still here so I guess the government still hasn’t made up their mind.”

The 160th SOAR was primarily a helicopter regiment that worked with American Special Forces soldiers. They were the Special Forces of the helicopter world. They were extremely skilled, experienced and daring pilots. One of their many claims to fame had been inserting the Delta Force and Ranger soldiers into Mogadishu. The soldiers were to make their grab-and-go mission on the Somalian warlord, Mohammad Farrah Aidid. They were then to re-mount the helicopters for extraction – all within minutes. But it had turned sour when the Somalians initiated an ambush and pinned the American soldiers down for hours. During the massive fire fight that followed, the 160th SOAR provided effective and much needed air support for the soldiers on the ground.

The cargo door began to open and within moments was touching the tarmac. The American load master stepped aboard and picked up his helmet from one of the seats, a 9mm Glock was strapped to the outside of his right thigh.

He gestured for them to form a semicircle around him before he squatted. The soldiers moved around him, put their weapons and equipment down and knelt. “Okay, there’s been a change of plan,” the Load Master had a strong Texan drawl. “Our ETA at Colemerik coincides with a multi-national sortie being flown out. Refuelling tankers, fighters, bombers, ground support aircraft, you name it, are outward bound around the time we are scheduled to arrive. We can’t afford to circle around waiting for them to finish their deployment; we have a VIP and his vehicle to pick up at Ercek.” He held up two fingers. “You guys have two choices. You can either make a high altitude, low opening five kilometres from the airbase and we’ll be on our merry way. Or you guys are welcome to wait for the next airlift to Colemerik, which will be sometime tomorrow morning, around 0145 hours. What do ya wanna do?”

“That’s gotta be a rhetorical question,” grinned Scott.

“How ‘bout a LALO?” Will asked loudly.

“Yup,” the loadie nodded. “We can do a low altitude, low opening.”

“What about our vehicle,” asked Steve.

The load master nodded. “That is the problem, there isn’t enough time to rig parachutes to it, so we can’t drop it out the back.”

“Well I don’t wanna go without our vehicle mate,” said Steve. "Want us to unload?”

“No, we can drop you guys out the back, do our next mission then come back to Colemerik and drop the vehicle off for you. The air traffic should have cleared by then.”

“We’ve got weapons, equipment and supplies on board that vehicle, mate. We’re not gunna let it outta sight.”

The load master shrugged and was at a loss.

“Your riggers, how fast are they?”

“Pretty fast,” replied the load master, “but not fast enough to get it done before we are due to takeoff.”

“So, take ‘em with us,” said Steve.

“Waddaya mean?” asked the load master

By this time the aircraft Captain had joined them to see what the holdup was about.

Steve shrugged. “Bring ‘em aboard and let ‘em rig the vehicle in flight.”

The load master nodded thoughtfully. “Not a bad idea,” he admitted. “I’ll contact the riggers’ supervisor and see if he’ll release a few of ‘em for the day.”

“Sounds good. Let’s go then,” Steve said. There was no way he was leaving an Australian vehicle in the hands of an allied force without being there himself, and now that it looked like the Rover would be parachuted in, he was happy to continue on the next leg of the journey.

The riggers arrived within twenty minutes. They unloaded the huge parachute packs and carried them aboard the aircraft, ready to rig them to the Land Rover for the drop. Once they were done, the load master signalled for the Australian soldiers and the newly arrived American riggers to form a semicircle around him near the rear ramp of the aircraft.

“Okay, I’m sure you guys know the drill, but this Herc’s a little different from the one’s you’ve experienced. Stay seated and strapped in during takeoff, I’ll signal when you can unbuckle and move around. If you don’t strap in for takeoff, you will end up with injuries. Don’t fuck with me on this one. There are parachutes for you on board and once I’ve given you the all clear to unbuckle, you can begin your jump prep.”

The soldiers nodded and walked aboard as the first engine whined into life. Moments later the propeller began to spin. They could smell the strong aroma of aviation gas carried on the strong, warm wind. The second engine started and within minutes all four propellers were beating the air with ferocious power. The load master signalled for them to strap on their seat buckles. He took his helmet and placed it underneath one of the seats. There was no need for him to wear it inside the aircraft. Instead, he wore a headset to maintain communications with the pilot and the second load master.

The Hercules was no different to any other in which they had travelled, thought Steve. The familiar red seats, the armoured panels lining the floor and the first aid kits were hanging above the seating, as they should be. As far as they all could tell, the C-130 that was beginning to taxi towards the runway was the familiar old Herc they had grown to know over the years.

The load master stood by the cargo door as it slowly closed. He checked that there were no malfunctions and that it closed correctly. Once the large metallic door had sealed with a dull clunk, he joined the soldiers and strapped himself in.

The men felt the aircraft turn before coming to a slow halt. It was almost a minute before a thunderous roar rose above the noise of the engines and Steve glanced out the small porthole. He watched as two British Tornadoes thundered into the sky in close formation, their landing gears quickly tucking themselves out of sight. The Tornadoes did not need much distance to take off so they used a short runway that intersected the main one. The Hercules would need to wait until the sortie had taken off. Another roar drowned out the C-130 and three more Tornadoes screamed into the sky to join the first two. The Herc rumbled out onto the main runway and turned ominously into the wind. From this angle Steve could see that a USAF Star Lifter had stopped where they had been moments before, waiting for them to take off. Taxiing slowly up behind the Star Lifter was another USAF Hercules and in the distance, two Apaches rose into the sky and moved off towards the west at low altitude.

The engine pitch rose and the aircraft lurched violently forward. Scott slid sideways slightly before his seat buckle stopped him from travelling any further.

Steve felt the seat buckle dig into his side, stopping him from sliding towards the rear of the plane. It might have looked like an average Hercules to the soldiers, but they’d never been in a transport plane this powerful before.

“Fuck’n Jesus,” mouthed Scott in disbelief.

Before they knew it, they were travelling into the sky at what felt like a 45-degree angle. Their stomachs were in their boots. After about five minutes, and once the aircraft had levelled out, the loadie unbuckled and stood up. He signalled for the men to unstrap the seat restraints. The riggers jumped up and secured the parachute packs to the vehicle in preparation for the drop. They rigged the chutes in such a way that the Land Rover would descend horizontally, rather than nose down, so they reduced the chances of damage or complete destruction. During the flight, they slowly moved the vehicle towards the rear ramp of the aircraft, before securing it to the floor once more. The American riggers moved quickly, with a fluid precision that instilled confidence in Steve. The last thing he wanted was to be without a vehicle. Steve pulled on a head set and asked the loadie about the aircraft while the others prepared their gear for the jump.

Apparently, the American Department of Defence had secured a secondary contract with Alison, the company that made the turboprop engines for the Hercules. The Department of Defence had given Alison five C-130s that they wanted upgraded and tweaked. It was almost like taking a V-8 and turning it into a V-12 super car. It had taken the technicians at Alison almost a year to complete and the finished products had been trialled for the last four months with 160th SOAR.

It was not only the expense that stopped the American Department of Defence from upgrading all their Hercules. The fact that the power of the aircraft had almost doubled meant that the hours left on the airframe had more than halved, which was unacceptable as far as durability was concerned. All five aircraft had almost 20,000 hours of flying time left on their airframes before they went in for the upgrade. But now, after the work had been completed, they had less than 8,000 hours. The force at which they could turn, dive and climb put an enormous strain on the airframe.

Steve thanked the loadie and joined the others. He prepared his parachute, pack and weapon for the jump. They wanted to jump a low altitude, low opening and hoped the pilot would oblige. The aircraft would only be 1, 000 feet from the ground when they stepped out the back. Once they were free falling they would wait two seconds before pulling their rip chords. When their parachutes had fully deployed they would be between 60 and 90 feet from the ground. From the time they left the aircraft to feeling solid ground beneath their feet, only 10 or 15 seconds should have passed.

During WWII, the paratroopers were set on static lines, so that once they left the aircraft their chute was pulled automatically. If the plane was at 10,000 feet the paratroopers could be hanging in the air for several minutes and became sitting ducks for enemy soldiers on the ground. This was why the idea of high altitude, low opening (HALO) and low altitude, low opening (LALO) jumps were devised. The record time from jumping out at 1,000 feet to being on the ground in all round defence was thirteen seconds. The record was held by a group of four Australian SASR veterans currently serving in Afghanistan.

It was not Steve’s intention to break any records today. The LALO jump was an opportunity for his patrol to hone their skills. It was an unwritten rule that if, at any stage, an opportunity for training or practice presented itself, it was to be taken. To strive for perfection was to strive to become a better and more skilled soldier.

Scott kicked Steve gently in the side. Steve looked up and saw Scott was strapped back into his seat, wearing a set of headphones.

“You’ve gotta listen to this!” he shouted over the noise.

“Yeah, in a minute, mate!” Steve called, closing his parachute pack.

Their parachute packs would be strapped to their backs, while their backpacks and webbing would be strapped to their drop lines. Weapons were attached to their chest on quick release clips.

Steve secured his weapon then climbed to his feet and moved back to his seat. Scott pointed at a set of headphones above his seat. Steve pulled them down and placed them on his head. Scott told him to switch to channel three. Steve flicked through the channels until a young American voice broke the silence.

“Roger, coming to a heading of two-seven-zero.”

Moments later the young man’s voice came back on air. He sounded like he was straining. To Steve, the young man sounded like he was a fighter pilot conducting a steep turn. Steve knew that turning quickly brought on the effects of G-force. If an inexperienced pilot turned or pulled up too quickly, the blood would leave his brain and head for his feet. The result was a loss of consciousness and ultimately a loss of control over the aircraft, which usually ended up ploughing into a distant mountainside.

There was an exercise he knew that the Air Force used to counter the effects of G-force. It was called the “Anti-G Straining Manoeuvre” and involved tensing the muscles of the body for three seconds, before rapidly exhaling, inhaling and then tensing again for another three seconds. It helped keep the blood evenly dispersed through the body rather than draining from the brain. Using this technique and with the help of an anti-G suit, a good pilot could withstand almost 13 Gs.

Steve had seen a short film clip of an American F-16 pilot in training. The fighter pilot had become an ace within two days of the First Gulf War breaking out. Within a week Saddam’s air force was all but annihilated. The camera was looking into the cockpit from the front and the fighter pilot had his right and left hands out either side of the camera. His head was turned over his right shoulder looking for the “enemy” USAF jets that had shot past and the aircraft was turning hard to the right.

He had seen many short clips like this, but had never taken the time to understand what the pilot was actually doing until it was explained to him. The pilot’s right hand was controlling the aircraft, his left was selecting the weapon he would need to engage the enemy fighters. In addition, as he turned he was performing his anti-G straining manoeuvre, as well as looking for the fighters that had shot past him moments before. On top of all this, he also kept an alert eye on his instrument panel. When his turn became less steep and the anti-G straining manoeuvre was no longer needed, he would begin a running commentary about where the enemies were, what type of aircraft they had and how his wingmen should engage. So much to think about, and a half-second lapse in concentration could spell death.

The young pilot went silent. Steve assumed he had completed his turn.

“We’re losin’ altitude like a son of a bitch,” came a grizzled, experienced voice. It seemed the young man was in a training, in which case he was up front and the trainer was seated behind him, observing him.

“Watch your altitude,” came the older voice again. “Altitude, waddaya doin’?”

Then a computerised voice took over, “Altitude, altitude, altitude.”

“Bravo takin’ the airplane,” the older man spoke again.

“Oh Jesus!” It was the young man’s voice. He sounded lethargic, almost as if he was coming to after being knocked out.

“What happened?” asked the trainer.

“I blacked out,” blurted the young pilot.

“Jesus!” responded the trainer, who obviously had not realised.

“Dammit!” The pilot sounded disappointed and angry with himself. More performances like that and the young pilot would probably lose his wings.

“Can I take the aircraft?” asked the pilot.

“Negative,” came the trainer’s voice. “Bravo has the aircraft.”

The transmission went dead and the voice of the C-130 pilot spoke. “Five minutes to jump.”

Steve told the others who did not have headphones about what they’d heard. The soldiers began donning their gear. It was a surprise that they had covered the distance so quickly. Steve calculated that, incredibly, the C-130 must have been travelling in excess of 1,000 km/h.

The loadie had strapped on a harness and clipped himself onto the side of the aircraft near the cargo door. He had also plugged the communication lead into the comms panel so he could hear information or commands from the pilot. When the cargo door opened, it was his job to ensure that it opened without malfunction. The harness would stop him from falling from the aircraft should anything go wrong.

Meanwhile Steve and the others checked their harnesses, backpacks and webbing. It was important to check, re-check and re-check each other. Any loose gear or open pockets meant that equipment or weapons could be lost in the jump. If it were a real combat situation, losing gear or weapons could compromise not only the mission, but their lives.

Steve and his men braced themselves as the C-130 went into a steep dive. They dived for almost half a minute before straightening out at what Steve assumed was 1,000 feet. They felt the aircraft slow and grabbed onto hard points to steady themselves. The cargo door began to open and a blast of air entered the aircraft. The loadie watched the door as it opened, the wind whipping his uniform ferociously. After the cargo door had fully opened, the loadie turned to the men and held up two fingers. Two minutes.

The five soldiers made their way to the open door and the yawning landscape below. The loadie passed them each a set of clear goggles that would protect their eyes from the wind on the way down. The men placed the goggles over their eyes and secured the elastic straps. The loadie held up one finger.

The men re-checked each other once more before moving into position. Dave and Scott, who were the gunners and had the greatest amount of firepower, would be the first on the ground. They would be followed by Matt, Will and finally Steve.

Steve tapped Dave and Scott on the shoulder. “Dave, I want you at 12 o’clock,” he shouted. “Scott, you go to six, we’ll form up on you two.” With a machinegun at 6 o’clock and 12 o’clock, the patrol was well protected. If the soldiers were jumping into a combat situation, the order of jump would be no different.

If the jump was mistimed even by a second, Steve knew someone would die. But then they were not cheap thrill seekers in search of adrenalin, they had all practiced this jump many times before. It was required that when a soldier first started jumping at 1,000 feet he was to be attached to a static line, which pulled his parachute out for him as he left the aircraft. The first sixty jumps would be conducted in this way. The soldier was then taken off the static line and on his next fifty jumps he was to pull his ripcord as soon as he left the aircraft. Instructors watched him and if he did not do this, he was either put back onto the static line or taken off the course altogether. For the next thirty jumps, the soldier was then able to leave a delay of one second before pulling the ripcord. Then with the first one-hundred and fifty jumps out the way, the soldier had a good judge of distance and speed and was able to delay pulling the ripcord for up to two seconds. The five SAS soldiers had practiced this jump hundreds of times before so the risk of injury or death was low.

The American riggers had released the chains holding the vehicle down. Only the handbrake kept the Land Rover from rolling out the back. Ordinarily the vehicle would have been secured to a sliding pallet, but due to time constraints the vehicle would be dropped by simply releasing the hand brake and pushing it off the rear ramp of the Hercules.

The riggers gave the thumbs up. One of them carefully leaned into the vehicle, took it out of gear and released the hand brake. The riggers pushed the vehicle slowly towards the end of the ramp. Gaining in speed, the Land Rover tipped over the edge and within a second had disappeared from sight. Steve hoped to Christ the chutes had opened.

The loadie turned to the soldiers, held up five fingers, then four, three, two, one. Dave hurled himself out the back of the aircraft, followed by the others at intervals of two seconds.

Steve watched Will disappear out the cargo door, counted to two and then stepped out into thin air. Warm, fume-filled air and the roar of the engines hit him as he fell. A moment later the smell of the fumes and the noise of the engines had been replaced by the thunder of cold air in his ears.

“One,” he counted to himself.

He could see that Dave was already on the ground and was sprinting into position, minimi in hand. Scott’s parachute was already open and he watched as Matt’s chute bloomed into life.

Scott had landed and unclipped his chute, which floated to the ground behind him. He sprinted into the 6 o’clock position, throwing himself to the ground. Will’s chute flared open beneath Steve.

“Two,” Steve counted, pulling the rip cord. He grunted as the parachute opened above him, violently slowing his rate of fall. He felt the sudden pull on his parachute harness telling him that his drop line, with his pack and webbing, had deployed successfully. Steve was about 30 metres from the ground.

Leaning back, he looked up making sure the parachute had opened properly. He counted the parachute lines, satisfied that none of them had twisted. Glancing back he could see the Land Rover shrouded in parachute silk in the distance. It was impossible to tell from this distance if the vehicle had sustained any damage.

He watched as Matt ran into position, going to ground in the 3 o’clock position. Steve looked up and over his right shoulder watching the C-130 high above them as it banked hard to the right, vapour trails streaming from the wing tips.

When he looked back again, he saw Will had landed, unclipped his weapon and was running for the 9 o’clock position. The ground came up to meet him and Steve rolled as his feet hit. He quickly detached his parachute mid-roll, unclipped his weapon as he came to his feet, released the drop line and sprinted into the middle of the circle going to ground.

“Nicely done,” said Steve, climbing to his feet. The others also stood up, adrenalin glinting in their eyes as they grinned like children. It was only then that the noise washed over Steve. He turned towards the airbase. The whine of turbo prop engines mingled with the roar of jet engines and the juddering power of helicopters. He could not see the runway because a long hedge of trees blocked his view, but he could smell the AVTAG. Whatever mission was outbound was huge. Drowning the combined roar of aircraft was a new sound: a powerful scream vibrated the ground. Ten seconds later he watched four British Tornadoes streak above the trees in close succession. Following almost as closely was a twin propeller Eagle Eye, a large, flat circle fixed horizontally above the fuselage indicated that it was a fighter control aircraft.

The noise of the five departing aircraft gave way once more to the thunderous roar of the numerous aircraft awaiting take off from the airbase. A low-pitched shriek filled the air, putting the noise at the base to shame as six Euro-fighters cut the sky in close formation. They appeared above the thick trees that concealed the airbase from Steve’s sight. The aircraft rapidly climbed to altitude and within minutes were tiny specks against the sky. Another sustained roar grew above the mixed noise and two air to air refuellers lumbered into the sky, a light brown smudge of burned fuel streaming from their huge jet engines.

“Someone’s about to get their arse kicked,” chuckled Scott from beside Steve.

“Tell me about it,” shouted Steve as the loudest roar he had ever heard thundered across the sky. He could feel the power vibrating through his chest. Scott said something else, but it was lost in the noise. The perpetrator showed itself, a B-52 heavy bomber cut the sky, on its way to deliver a pay load of devastation. Three more B-52s took off and as their size diminished in the sky and their noise faded, the airbase which had emitted a dull roar was now a soft burr. Steve watched as sixteen Blackhawk helicopters departed, closely followed by seven Chinooks. Leading the convoy were nine Apaches and five Cobras.

With the main event now over, the noise from the airbase was almost nonexistent. The soldiers packed their gear away and walked to the Land Rover. As he pulled the parachutes away, Steve could see no obvious damage to the vehicle. Climbing into the driver’s seat, he turned the key. The vehicle started first time.

“Nice one,” said Dave.

As the engine was left to warm up, the soldiers detached the parachutes, packed them away and placed them in the back of the Land Rover. They would drop them off at Colemerik where, hopefully, the parachutes would make their way back to the American riggers in Qatar.

They drove towards the airbase at a sedate fifty kilometres per hour, giving the British soldiers guarding the gate plenty of time to see them. The last thing they wanted was the British to think them a threat and open fire. Coming to a gentle stop near the gate, Steve nodded at the nearest guard.

“G’day mate,” he said.

“Afternoon, Sir. May I see your identification please,” the guard was clearly aware that the soldiers before him were not British. He kept one hand on the SA-80 assault rifle slung across the front of his body.

“Yeah no worries,” Steve held the ID card up for the guard to inspect. The others followed suit.

“Thank you, Sir, which unit are you with?”

“We’re with the Australians,” answered Steve.

“Oh okay,” replied the guard, who was clearly not aware there were any Australians on the base. In truth there was only a token Australian force in Colemerik. The majority of them, including six Australian FA-18 fighters, their pilots and ground crew, had not yet arrived.

The guard nodded at the other British soldiers, who raised the boom gate to let vehicle pass. Steve drove through with a nod of thanks and the soldiers found themselves travelling on a long, flat, winding road towards the distant buildings of Colemerik. One kilometre to their right was the flight line, where huge numbers of aircraft were lined up in neat rows. There were fighters, fighter control, transport, bombers, helicopters. Steve saw most of them originated from NATO countries.

The Australian area was miniscule compared to the other forces inhabiting Colemerik. It was called Camp Linacre, but with only an advance force populating the area, Steve and the others had plenty of room to relax for the night. They met some of the Australians at the mess that night and made small talk over dinner. The SASR soldiers did not talk about why they were there or when they would leave, but the other Australians knew who they were. They also knew that before long Steve and his soldiers would be in circumstances far more dangerous and far less comfortable.

Chapter 4

As a deep blue tinge gave the eastern sky a touch of light, the Australians were returning from the mess after breakfast. Colemerik was quiet, apart from the dull burr of what sounded like a C-130 Hercules as it rumbled into the sky, delivering supplies or bleary eyed troops somewhere in Iraq.

Within twenty minutes, as the sky turned a dull pink, the soldiers were under way. They had shredded their identification cards and burned them. Nowhere on their person did they carry any indication of rank or identity. It was common practise in case of capture. They drove for almost ten minutes, passing only two other vehicles, before they reached the southern gate, which was guarded by four soldiers.

“Thanks fellas,” Steve said to them as he drove through the raised boom gate.

They nodded and watched with interest as the Land Rover headed south towards the border. By the little he could see of their uniforms in the poor light Steve thought they were Danish soldiers.

By sunrise they had driven almost an hour and a half. They were keen to cross the border quickly and without drawing attention. By mid morning, they had driven over the border and into Iraq. They kept well clear of roads or populated areas, instead driving on low ground making sure they were not silhouetted against the skyline.

Around lunch time, Steve stopped and watched a drove of distant goats with interest. He turned the engine off. A young goat herder was walking behind them, occasionally hitting the nearest goats with a stick and driving them onwards to some unknown destination. The boy seemed bored. Watching in silence, the Australian soldiers had their weapons ready. Priority dictated that their secrecy and anonymity were more important than the boy’s life. If he noticed them, he would die. They watched the boy and his goats until they had disappeared from sight.

Engaging the ignition, the engine sprang to life and Steve accelerated gently, keeping to a sedate pace to avoid kicking up too much dust. Three more times they were forced to either stop or deviate from their route in order to evade goat herds or tiny villages.

“Hold it!” hissed Scott at one point, flicking off the safety catch and swivelling the fifty calibre machinegun to bear down on a smudge of dust. Steve stopped the Land Rover. The dust was growing closer and the sound of an engine came in intermittent burbles as the gentle breeze blew towards them. Within minutes an old, decrepit looking truck, probably of Russian origin came into view.

“One occupant,” spoke Will softly, as he stared through the binoculars.

Matt brought his weapon up resting it across his knees in such a way that he looked unthreatening, almost complacent, but could react quickly if the situation turned sour.

The vehicle came to a screaming halt beside the Land Rover. An Iraqi man with a full beard grinned out at them, his arm resting on the door. The grin vanished as he saw the foreign weapons and he became wary.

The Iraqi spoke quickly, he seemed agitated. Scott replied calmly. Nodding, the man continued to watch them silently.

“What’d he want?” whispered Steve.

“Wants to know where his son is, he should have herded fifty head of goat back home by now. Apparently the monthly markets are the day after tomorrow,” replied Scott.

“You tell him we don’t know?"

“Yup.”

“So what now?” whispered Steve.

“What now? He thinks we’ve either kidnapped or killed his son. Matt get ready to drop him.”

“Way ahead of ya,” replied Matt calmly.

The Iraqi’s face was solemn now, even angry decided Steve. The newcomer shouted at them, his eyes betraying his anger.

Scott shouted back, his hands splayed out before him in a gesture of innocence. He was trying to defuse the situation, but failing. The man climbed out of the vehicle, an AK-47 clasped firmly in his hands. The Australians held their fire. Scott continued to try to dissuade the man. The Iraqi spat a comment in reply and with a snarl raised the weapon to his shoulder. A single rifle crack broke the moment. The man dropped to the ground in a lifeless heap. Matt slowly lowered the M-110 sniper rifle from his shoulder.

“Fuck it!” snarled Scott. “Stupid bastard should have listened to me!”

“Yup, he should have,” said Steve and accelerated away, leaving the abandoned Russian vehicle idling gently. And a corpse lying face down in the sand.

They drove fast now, blistering along at up to a hundred kilometres per hour when the terrain allowed. Steve did not want to risk the gunshot being heard by local inhabitants who might be curious enough to go and investigate. When they were almost twenty kilometres from the site of the altercation, Steve slowed to a more sedate pace and they drove without seeing another soul for what seemed an eternity.

“If I was a God, there wouldn’t be a chance in hell I’d take mortal form in a shit ’ole like this,” Scott grinned, looking at the others. “Give me surf, sand and hot chicks any day of the week.”

“Well you’ve got plenty of sand, mate,” chuckled Steve.

The sun began to retire throwing a blanket of dull orange to the west. As hues of deep pink began to outweigh the orange they came upon the distant village of Barzan. Parking the vehicle in a deep, protective wadi hidden from view, the soldiers donned their packs and walked closer to the village. When they had covered close to five hundred metres, which took almost an hour of slow patrolling, they decided to set up an observation post. Dave was sent forward to select an area for the OP. Having spent most of his SAS career in deserts worldwide, Dave did not pull any punches when it came to his incredible knowledge about the desert. Once he had chosen the perfect location, the rest of the patrol advanced and began quietly digging a wide depression out of the sand. A desert camouflage net over the observation post gave them concealment. When the sun rose in the morning, no one would be the wiser that the Australians were there, keeping watch over the village.

Intelligence said General Al-Hazareen was to be hidden in the village, but whether he had arrived yet was still not confirmed. The half moon was still high in the sky, but when the cold sting of early morning bit through anything but the toughest clothing, the moon would have slid beneath the horizon. It was then that Scott and Will would go on a recon patrol into the village in search of the General. It was their task to find out if he had arrived, and if so, where he was hidden and how well he was guarded.

“You blokes hit the sack, I’ll keep watch for now,” said Steve unslinging his weapon and dropping his pack quietly in the sand beside him. “Matt, you’re up next, I’ll wake you in a couple of hours.”

“Yup, righto.”

As the others settled down in their sleeping bags, Steve lay down on his stomach, brought the minimi into his shoulder and looked out towards Barzan. The minimi light machinegun was always used as the weapon of choice during piquet. The rising moon was bright, making the need for night vision almost unnecessary. However the leader of the SASR patrol was not willing to take any chances. The pale light of the moon could play tricks with the eyes, either making something appear where there was nothing, or hiding someone or something that was there from view.

Steve scanned the horizon slowly, keeping his ears open for any unusual sounds that could mean their situation was about to take a turn for the worse. As the minutes ticked by, his mind turned to his family. He missed Judy and the kids. If he were not careful, before he knew it his children would be adults with their own lives. His marriage was under stress and he knew that if he did not spend more time with them he probably would not have a family. He was due for five weeks leave and was seriously considering taking it when he got back.

Judy wanted him to quit the army and rejoin the civilian world. Steve was strongly opposed to the idea and the couple had argued about it, sometimes savagely. The SASR came first and family second. That had always been the unwritten rule within the ranks of the Special Air Service Regiment and probably always would be. Although he loved his family, he was dedicated to the regiment. It was a mentality that many wives and loved ones had a lot of trouble understanding. Understandably, for this reason the divorce rate within the regiment was unbelievably high. Steve knew if he did not begin spending more time with his wife and children, he would be divorced.

It was not only his immediate family that suffered either. He had not seen his parents for almost three years. Nearly two and a half years had passed since he had spoken to his brother, let alone visited him. But then it was the price one paid for entering a unit such as the SASR. And it was a price that he and many of his colleagues were willing to pay.

* * * * *

At 0100 hours Will, followed by Scott, moved out of the observation post and made their way slowly towards the distant town of Barzan. Few lights shone in the small township, but in the little light thrown by the stars, the outskirts were still visible to the naked eye. However, with the night vision goggles on, Barzan was clearly visible to both soldiers. No residents were moving around and all looked quiet. These were ideal conditions for the mission Will and Scott intended to undertake.

As they moved closer, the challenging bark of a dog broke the silence, the sound echoing out into the stillness of the night. Without taking his eyes from their destination, Will signalled for a halt and both men went down on one knee. The dog barked again, this time sounding a little unsure. The sound faded into silence and both soldiers waited quietly for two minutes, before slowly rising to their feet and continuing towards the town.

Apart from their weapons, the soldiers hoped they would pass as Iraqi locals. They were hoping that any enemy that they might come into contact would take little notice of their weapons. But they were hoping that in such a small town, few people would be awake at 1:00am.

It took them almost an hour of slow patrolling to reach the outskirts of the town. Once they had travelled into Barzan, Will moved away into the shadows of the buildings, crouching low. He continued to patrol parallel to Scott who had slung his weapon and tucked his night vision goggles out of sight and was strolling casually along the road. Will was Scott’s cover man should he get into a tight spot. If a sleepy Barzanian resident were to glance out the window, they would just see an Iraqi man out on a night’s stroll. It would look more suspicious were they to see what looked like two Iraqi militiamen armed to the teeth patrolling as if they were intent on killing someone.

Scott was careful not to put any buildings or objects between himself and Will as he moved. They were closer to the building within which they had been told General Hazareen was, or would be staying. It was their mission to infiltrate the house, find out if he was there and then leave. Tonight would not be the night they grabbed him; it was simply an intelligence gathering patrol. The more information they had with which to work, the better their chances of success.

A dog padded out of a nearby house and made a beeline for Scott. Will went down on a knee and brought his weapon to bear, sighting it at the animal’s thin body. Scott held out his hand and let the dog sniff it. The animal moved tentatively forward, sniffed his outstretched palm, wagged its tail and moved closer. Scott patted its head then continued on. The dog was statue still, watching the departing man, its ears cocked. It stood without moving for nearly a minute, before turning and trotting out of sight behind a nearby house.

Will slowly rose and moved on quietly. Scott was standing with his hands on his hips with his back turned to his slowly advancing comrade. He gazed at the stars with feigned interest. In reality, Scott was waiting for the patrolling soldier to catch up with him.

Without looking around, Scott continued strolling towards their destination. They were much closer now. The pair moved on for another ten minutes before they rounded a corner. Will saw movement ahead. It was a man with his back to them. The acrid aroma of cigarette smoke drifted through the air. Scott immediately changed direction towards the Iraqi. Will almost chuckled as he realised that Scott probably wanted nothing more than to steal a smoke off him. But he probably had not seen the man as quickly as Will’s night vision eyes had. In such a small town, it would be suspicious to ignore a person, even at such an early hour of the morning. The man coughed and spat, before turning towards Scott as he heard him approach.

“As-salaam alaykum,” Will heard Scott speak, waving at the man.

“Peace be with you,” Scott said in Arabic, waving at the man as he advanced.

The Iraqi man responded in kind.

“I arrived yesterday afternoon visiting my sister who has just moved here,” Scott began. “I’m so excited to see her again that I could not sleep. I haven’t seen her for nearly ten years now, would you believe? Excuse my poor manners, I am Ahmad Dhabi,” said Scott smiling cheerfully, his face hidden within his shamag. He could not remember whether Iraqi people shook hands when introducing themselves, so he simply fell silent.

“Yes, family is important, ten years is a long time my friend! I am Adil Abu,” the Iraqi responded warmly, holding out his hand. Scott took it and was surprised at the strength of Adil’s grip.

Meanwhile Will had moved slowly and carefully forward until he was about twenty metres from the men, which was close enough that a single accurate shot could be taken on the Iraqi, killing him instantly. Very quietly and deliberately, Will lay down on his stomach and sighted the M4 at the Iraqi’s chest. A gunshot would attract attention, but it would guarantee a kill. Will had a bayonet with him, and even though killing a man with a knife was quiet, it was not as easy as Hollywood made it look.

When someone was murdered by a person wielding a knife, they were usually stabbed well in excess of fifteen times. Contrary to popular belief, this was not because the murderer was completely crazy, but because the victim was still alive, struggling, screaming or gurgling, gasping or writhing in agony. To kill a person with one blow of a knife took a professional who could sneak soundlessly upon an enemy. Once close enough they would have to inflict a wound either in their enemy’s throat, cutting the voice box and carotid artery, or the chest, cutting between the ribs and piercing the heart. Or, if the victim had been knocked to the ground with their back uppermost, a knife blow to the base of the skull would severe the spine and cease communications between the brain and the body. However, one single shot from a safe distance would kill an enemy and re-establish Scott’s safety if it were compromised.

“What is your sister’s name?” asked Adil. “I might know her.”

“That is the reason I am visiting her,” said Scott pausing for a moment, having side stepped the question. “She has only just moved here herself. She is staying with someone over the other side of town. She was a journalist in Baghdad, but fled when the Iraqi army started rounding up Kurds in the city. She wanted to live in a small town somewhere far away from all that. I have helped her move what little belongings she had here. We arrived yesterday afternoon. I might stay another week or so, before I head back home.” Scott smiled cheerfully, hoping to Christ the man believed him.

“Yes, the violence has not been good. Still America have given us justice against the Iraqis, we are only repaying them for generations of oppression. It is not good that your sister was forced to flee her career, but she will be safe here. The Kurdish Army has kept the Iraqis at bay and we have seen no violence here yet.”

Scott nodded. The Kurdish Army, he thought to himself. The situation was far worse than the UN realised. The Kurds' only intention was to murder Iraqis on mass.

“Do you think you could spare a cigarette?” asked Scott.

“But of course, my friend,” responded Adil, reaching inside his clothing.

Will’s finger took the first trigger pressure gently as he watched the Iraqi reach into his robe. The hand came out holding a packet of cigarettes and Will released the pressure on the trigger.

Scott pulled a cigarette from the packet and placed it in his mouth.

“Have you got a light?” he asked.

Scott had a lighter on him, but it was one he had bought in Perth and had English writing on it. He was not willing to risk being compromised should the Kurd see the foreign words even in the dim light. Adil held out a lighter and ignited the cigarette. Scott nodded his thanks and took a long drag. It was the first cigarette he had smoked in a while. He inhaled deeply and stopped himself from coughing. It was the worst cigarette he had ever tasted. But he opted for the bright side, it was a cigarette nevertheless.

“I've heard that we’re not the only ones to have arrived,” spoke Scott. “Apparently thousands are fleeing from the cities.”

“You are correct in this,” replied Adil. “I know of four different families who have joined our community in the last month alone.” Adil became animated. “And we have a celebrity joining our town! An officer in the Kurdish Army has been sent here for protection, away from our Iraqi enemies.” Adil leaned conspiratorially towards Scott. “I am one of his guards.” Adil pointed behind his house. “He’s staying just around the corner from my home!”

“You must be honoured to be hand chosen for such a task,” responded Scott. “It must be pleasing to be the guard chosen for this great officer.”

“No, no, it is not just myself. There are thirty others.”

“I wouldn’t mind meeting this man before I leave. I depart in a week, do you think I will get a chance to see him?” Scott inquired.

“Oh yes, of course. If what we have been told is correct, he should be arriving sometime later in the morning or this afternoon. We are all very excited to see him.”

“Yes I’m sure you are,” Scott replied.

The men continued to talk for almost ten minutes while Will lay on the cold ground, his crosshair never leaving the Kurd's chest. Adil eventually bid the man he knew as Ahmad Dhabi goodbye and disappeared into his house. Scott walked on and moved around the side of the house, following the road east towards the target building which, Will knew, would now be in Scott’s sight. He continued to lie there for another five minutes, making sure the Kurd did not reappear. Having decided the man had gone to bed he rose silently. His weapon was trained on the entrance to the dwelling and his finger on the trigger. Moving quietly past Adil’s entrance, he turned eastward, following Scott. After he covered another twenty metres, Will stopped, scanning his surroundings. On the other side of the road, crouched in the shadow of the houses was Scott, who now had his weapon in hand and was wearing his night vision goggles. He was staring back at Will. With his left hand, Scott pointed at a house directly in front of them. It was a mansion that stood almost one hundred metres distant and was situated on a slight rise. The house was built in such a position that the road came to an abrupt halt at the front door. It looked new and well built, obviously constructed with the comfort of someone important in mind. As far as the intelligence they had been given was concerned, it was intended for General Hazareen. Will nodded and the soldiers slowly rose and moved forward deliberately and carefully.

They stopped regularly but briefly, to look and listen for noises or indications that they were being observed or could be compromised. In the case of a compromise, Scott would lay suppressive fire upon an enemy target with the minimi while Will sprinted back and covered Scott as he in turn withdrew. Both men were hoping that would not occur as it would jeopardise their immediate mission, as well as the patrol's entire operation within the area.

It took almost fifteen minutes for the soldiers to reach the house and conduct a slow, thorough perimeter search to locate any sentries on guard. With no indications of any piquet, the men entered the dwelling. Two rooms could be seen to the left of a steep stone staircase, which led to the second floor. What was immediately apparent to the men was the smell of fresh paint. To the right of the stairs was a large open area that looked to be a living room. Scott indicated that he would search upstairs while Will was to search the rooms downstairs.

Will, weapon in shoulder, moved quietly and carefully towards the open doorway of the first room, while Scott disappeared up the stairs. The first room was empty, apart from two sets of bunk beds one against each wall. The second room also contained two bunk beds and on the bottom bed of each slept a soldier. Silently, he scanned the room. Leaning against the wall were their AK47s, both of which seemed well cared for. There was a small cupboard against the wall near the entrance. Will moved to it, careful not to touch the half open doors in case they created unnecessary noise. Peering in he saw an ironing board, iron, and hanging up neatly were the uniforms of the sleeping Iraqi soldiers. It was hard to see accurate details, but the uniforms looked well ironed. On the floor of the cupboard were two sets of boots, both of which seemed polished and well kempt. This spoke of discipline and pride. Contrary to the belief instilled in most westerners by the media in regards to the Iraqi Defence Force, these soldiers appeared to be professionals.

Turning back to the beds and moving closer, Will bent down by the closest bunk and looked into the face of the soldier. He would have knelt had his left knee not cracked loudly. Using the photograph of General Al-Hazareen that he had burned into his memory, he compared it to the face of the sleeping Iraqi. The result was a negative and he moved to the second man, bending down so that he was a foot from the man’s face. He gently held his breath so his exhalation did not disturb the man’s sleep. This was also a negative and with a last, silent sweep of the room, Will left. He moved quietly out into the living room, looking for anything that might give them a clue as to when the General might be arriving. As it was unsafe for either of the soldiers to verbally communicate, Will did not yet know what Scott had gleaned from his conversation with Adil. He searched the small alcove behind the stairs, found nothing and made his way to the front door, where he waited for Scott to finish his sweep upstairs.

It seemed to Will that the General had not yet arrived and that the mansion that was to be Al-Hazareen’s was being guarded by a small contingent of the soldiers assigned to protect him. If the bunk beds were anything to go by then there would be at least six to eight Iraqi soldiers guarding the General. He assumed the rest of the soldiers would arrive with the General himself.

It took Scott another five minutes. As he quietly descended the stairs he shrugged and shook his head. Their mission complete, the two soldiers departed the house and made their way slowly back to the observation post from where they had started. Not wanting to risk coming across Adil again, they made their way back via a different route. Will once more crouched in the shadows as Scott, his weapon and night vision goggles safely out of sight, strolled down the road.

* * * * *

The sun broke the horizon, painting the few clouds that dotted the sky a vibrant pink. A bird’s call could be heard echoing in the distance. Scott yawned. He was sitting on the ground, leaning against his pack for comfort. The desert camouflage net just above his head, hid the culvert from view.

“Okay,” he began in a half whisper, skimming over the notes he had written after they returned from Barzan. The writing was messy, the sentences running almost diagonal to the page, but then it was difficult to write when the only light available came from stars.

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