TASK GROUP GYM
Terence Saygen racked the hundred and twenty kilos back onto the bench press and jumped up onto the heave beam. With his hands shoulder-width apart he quickly lifted his body until his chin was above the beam, then he slowly controlled it down again. He raised himself up easily ten more times, admiring himself in the mirror as he did so. On the last chin-up he saw Matt Rix walking past the gymnasium door in the direction of the intelligence hut.
‘Poor bastard,’ Saygen said under his breath as he dropped off the beam.
‘What’s up with that joker, skipper?’ said Sledge, one of Saygen’s older troopers, as he walked past to place some weights back on the shelf.
‘Nothing, mate – I suspect in the next few days he’s going to get his arse handed to him by the Taliban, though.’ Saygen half laughed as he ran his sweaty hands through his jet-black hair.
‘No big deal, we can pull ’em out of the shit as always.’ The trooper dropped the two forty-five-kilogram dumbbells on the rubber matting. The dull thud reverberated throughout the gym.
Saygen kept his eye on Rix as the Yankee Platoon leader walked past the gym windows and made his way along the dusty track that linked the mess hall and the headquarters building. Saygen felt uneasy about the secret he had been let in on earlier that day. He enjoyed mixing it with the commando when the odds were even, but now that the deck was stacked against Rix, he couldn’t help but feel the unfairness of the situation.
‘Yeah – I certainly hope so,’ Saygen said to himself.
• • •
Matt breathed in deeply. The late-afternoon air was clear and with the heat of the day now gone, so too was the stench from the open septic pits at the end of the airfield. It had been a long week for Yankee Platoon. The defence of the base followed by an ADFIS investigation and now rushing to prepare the vehicles for a mobility operation had worn Matt out. He was looking forward to getting out in the dasht. At least there he would be in charge of the operational tempo.
Matt looked down the road that ran out of the camp and all the way off across the airfield and up into the hills. He could see everything out in the landscape in sharp focus. He had noticed a few days before that at this time of the year the wind stopped at around three in the afternoon, and not long after that the dust would settle.
Walking past the kitchen he could hear the sounds of pots and pans being bashed around the sinks. The locally employed contractors were rushing to complete their day’s work. They always worked faster at the end of the day. Matt assumed it was because they were keen to get to the front of the long line for the security check before being allowed to exit the base. They were all keen to get back to Tarin Kowt before sunset. The sprawling township would soon come alive with the evening call for prayer.
Matt continued past the door to the headquarters and followed the winding path down to the intelligence cell’s small offices. Overhead, two giant CH-47 Chinooks thundered in, their twin blades snapping through the wind as they landed at the airstrip on the other side of Camp Russell. The helicopters were part of an intricate resupply system that maintained the utility of the outposts. They would fly in fast and low, always mixing up their routes to avoid sporadic ground fire. Not ten seconds behind, the two Apache escorts screamed in, their sensors scanning for threats. The Apaches circled overhead as the Chinooks settled down on the landing pads.
Matt stood there for a moment, watching. The commandos had done months of build-up work with the Chinooks and the Black Hawks at their base back in Holsworthy. They had rehearsed loading drills, exiting the aircraft at speed while simulating being under fire, and practised fast roping onto target roofs all under covering fire from the snipers restrained in other circling helicopters. Prior to their deployment, the training had been tortuous and yet they had not been given any firm indication of when they might actually get to use the Black Hawks. Matt found his frustration growing as he watched the aircraft land.
The intelligence cell was deliberately located separate to the main buildings so that the most sensitive information and capabilities could be housed there. Pushing open the wooden door, Matt stepped inside; the aroma of apple cider muffins, microwaved just minutes before, filled the air. From the small foyer he could go in one of two directions. To the left was the intelligence briefing room, the den, and multiple offices for the staff; to the right was the common room where the analysts spent their downtime. From this room, Matt could hear the sounds of an Aussie Rules football game blaring.
‘Can I help you, mate?’
Matt turned to see a scraggly-haired corporal. Straight away Matt profiled him as a support guy. He was wearing the largest dive watch Matt had ever seen and had grown his bleached hair to the point where he could have stepped straight off a surf beach in Hawaii. Probably great at his job, but subconsciously he had a complex that he was not an operator.
‘G’day, is Sam around?’
‘No, he left.’ The corporal went to skirt around Matt but Matt took a step to the left, blocking his exit.
‘Where to?’
‘Kandahar. He left with the CO an hour ago or something like that. I dunno, to be honest.’
‘Right, so will he be back tonight?’ Matt could feel his patience wearing thin.
‘Nah. Maybe late tomorrow. Now, if you don’t mind, mate . . .’ The young corporal motioned to move past Matt.
Matt grabbed the corporal’s arm, his frustration mounting. ‘Listen, mate, I know that you can read the rank I’m wearing and I suggest that at some point you find a certain level of professionalism. I’m not here on a social call so let’s start this conversation again, shall we? Where’s Sam?’ Matt released his arm and the corporal took a quick step backwards.
‘Like I said, he’s in Kandahar – sir,’ the corporal responded, the emphasis on the ‘sir’ bordering dangerously close to insolence. He rubbed his forearm where Matt had sunk his thumb in.
‘Careful, champ, it’s a long tour and I have an even longer memory,’ said Matt. ‘Sam told me earlier today to come here for an update briefing regarding Yankee Platoon’s next mission. Did he say anything about it, or is there someone else here I can see?’
‘Oh, you’re Yankee’s commander? Right, right – sorry, I didn’t realise. Nice work the other night, man. Jesus, I can’t believe you smashed the Bushmasters through our own gates. Fucking awesome, bro!’ The young signal corporal stuck out his hand.
Matt briefly shook it, inwardly shaking his head. He didn’t like this new type of support guy. On what planet does a corporal call a captain mate, especially on their first encounter? It was the lack of respect that this new breed of soldier displayed that amazed him.
‘Oh yeah, that’s right, Sam left a target pack and some maps and an area overview for you. It’s in the briefing room. I’ll just go get it, mate,’ the corporal said, as if to reinforce Matt’s already low opinion of him. He turned and jogged off to the sound of cheers from the common room; someone must have scored a goal, thought Matt.
Standing there waiting, Matt considered the corporal’s response when he realised that Matt was Yankee Alpha. He wondered what everyone else made of the counterattack that Yankee Platoon had conducted. The contractors had worked feverishly all week to fix the barracks and gates and now there was no sign of what had occurred; it was as though the whole thing had been nothing more than a hellish nightmare.
The corporal returned and presented Matt with a map and a large yellow envelope. ‘Here you go then, sir.’ Matt noticed that this time the ‘sir’ was uttered with genuine respect. ‘This should do the trick. If there’s anything else I can help you with, just drop by anytime. The name’s Jarrod – though my mates call me J-dog.’
‘Of course they do, Jarrod. Are you going to explain any of this to me?’ Matt said as he opened the yellow envelope and began flicking through the sheets of paper.
‘Well, no, Sam didn’t actually tell us anything about it – he just told me to get it to you today. Oh, he did say to pass on that the Taliban have an IED campaign going on, so you should keep off the tracks where possible.’
Another cheer erupted from the common room.
‘Did it ever cross your mind to maybe come find me?’ Matt demanded.
‘Sam said you’d find me,’ the corporal countered. ‘Can I go now, sir?’ He gestured in the direction of the common room. ‘I really want to watch this and it’s actually my day off.’
‘Oh, I see, it’s your day off,’ Matt said sarcastically.
The corporal shrugged and smiled.
As he left the intelligence cell, Matt considered going to the platoon office, but then thought better of it. He had spent too many hours in there over the last month, jumping through all the admin hoops required when a unit arrived in Afghanistan. The Yankee Platoon common room was also not an option as the guys would undoubtedly be Skyping wives or girlfriends. Even worse would be if the lads had networked their computers across the barracks and were now screaming insults at each other across the hall as their avatars fought it out in Call of Duty 2. The mess hall would be free, though, and there Matt could spread the maps and reports out across one of the long tables and study them in silence.
• • •
Matt had delivered his platoon preliminary orders earlier in the evening, setting the wheels in motion for JJ to organise the feverish packing and repacking required to get outside the wire. While the men packed Bushmasters, changed batteries, printed maps and loaded global positioning systems with waypoints, Matt worked on his final orders. He would deliver these early the next day, prior to setting off on their first vehicle patrol of the tour. Sometimes the best thing to do with these types of operations was to just to get out of the base and onto the dasht. Out there they could set up and conduct an even more detailed analysis, safe in the knowledge that in the middle of the desert plains nothing the enemy had could reach them. Well almost nothing, save for IEDs and the occasional 107mm rocket. The great thing with a disrupt mission was that just being out there was disruptive to the enemy and provided most of the stimulus needed to draw them in.
Matt stared into his cup of black coffee, wishing it was half as good as the coffee he’d enjoyed in Italy on his last leave. And thinking of Italy inevitably led to thoughts of Rachel. Matt had really enjoyed her company in the Dolomites. They had been friends for a while, and had started a long distance relationship some months before when she had arrived from London to see friends in Australia. Matt had suggested they meet next in Italy, in a little place that his family went to every few years for holidays. The meeting had coincided with his leave before his next deployment and she had seemed very keen to see more of him.
After the skiing holiday, Rachel had come back to Dubai where Matt joined the rest of his platoon at the Al Minhad air base prior to entering Afghanistan. From there Rachel had gone on to India on a writing assignment. The last time he had seen her was when they parted at the airport. She had told him that their lives were going in different directions and that there was probably no point in continuing with their relationship. He’d begged her to reconsider, promising that they would talk again soon. That had been eight weeks ago. It was the same old story; he had never been able to maintain a relationship for more than a couple of months. It always came down to a choice between the girl and the army. Work had always won in the past – and he had a feeling it always would.
Yawning, Matt gathered up the papers and maps and stuffed them back into the envelope.
Making his way back to his room, he looked at his watch. It was already past midnight and with the promise of only four hours sleep to come before he was to prepare for the final orders, he dropped the maps and his notebook on his bedside table and lay down on his bed, boots and all, and was asleep in seconds.