CHORA VALLEY
‘So that’s it, boss – our first two-week vehicle operation done and dusted.’
Matt shook his head. ‘Not so fast, JJ; the mission’s finished when the last vehicle rolls through the front gate tomorrow. How about you guys: any questions, lads?’
Matt looked at each of the four team commanders huddled in the back of the locked-down command vehicle. The command vehicle was one of twelve operated by Yankee Platoon. Two vehicles faced out at every cardinal point, making a ring of steel that could be covered by the vehicle’s weapon systems. The command vehicle sat protected in the centre of the ring with the two mortar vehicles directly opposite. Matt had just given the platoon commanders convoy orders for the next day and they had war-gamed events that could reasonably occur on the trip back to Tarin Kowt.
‘No questions from me, boss,’ Ben Braithwaite, the Team One commander said. The other team commanders followed suit.
They continued to pore over the maps in the dim red light illuminating the back of the Bushmaster. The tactical red lighting ensured that the vehicles remained hidden from any spotters sitting out on the mountains. It also reduced everything in the back of the vehicle to every shade of red. With the orders complete, Matt switched off the tactical lights, plunging the vehicle into darkness. The team commanders exited the vehicle one by one, returning to their team positions on the perimeter. JJ stayed sitting in the vehicle eating a cup of noodles.
For the past two weeks Yankee Platoon had been tasked with destroying the Taliban’s spotter network throughout the Chora Valley. The Taliban had mistaken it for an Australian Infantry platoon operating away from company support. An important distinction not known to the Taliban was Yankee Platoon’s will to take the fight right up to the enemy and the sophisticated targeting and optical systems fitted to its platoon’s vehicles.
From the first day, the spotters had tried to organise resistance to the platoon’s movements north. Matt’s men had sat in the relative safety of the dasht and triangulated the spotters’ locations using feeds from drones, sensors and optics. Once all the positions had been registered, Matt’s mortars would engage the targets and the .50-cal machine guns and the MK19 40mm grenade launchers would take on those stupid enough to come down the mountains for a closer look. In some of the breakneck cuttings where there was only the one way to go through, Matt’s men dismounted in front of the cars and fought their way through the clumsy ambushes that the enemy had set up to try and delay their movement. Conducting this type of disruption operation and taking the fight to the spotter network assisted the Americans in the area, who were conducting village security operations, and also the Australian infantry who had been having trouble moving along the main service road between Chora and Uruzghan.
In the last few days of their patrol Matt had taken the vehicles higher still up into the mountains and along the roads and passes north of the Chora Valley. The route deserved respect and careful navigation. The area itself was breathtaking; the lush green valleys became gigantic rock escarpments that soared into the blue sky. As their vehicles wound further up the tracks the landscape became more inhospitable and the air thinner, making the sky an even darker blue. Massive open areas of rocky desert plateaus overlooked the deep valleys far below. It was like being on top of the world. The time away from the base had been hectic and the men had inflicted heavy losses on the Taliban, but they had been left to their own devices. Far from the flagpole, they managed their own destiny.
‘Boss, I know you’ve received orders from the CO to conduct another operation after we get back, and orders are orders, but don’t they know we’ve been fighting here solid for a fortnight and need some downtime?’ JJ leaned forward; reaching under the black steel cage that protected the radio stack, he fished around for another pre-packaged instant noodle cup. ‘Can’t you call the CO and let him know the guys are trashed and need a break? I mean, you have a duty to let him know that too, right?’
Matt stared at the sergeant thoughtfully for a moment. The CO would hardly be likely to view such a call favourably. It wasn’t unusual, though, for a commando sergeant to give such frank, unsolicited advice – especially when it wasn’t him who would have to do the asking. Matt considered JJ’s protestation.
The light from the laptop reflected on Matt’s face. ‘It’s all good, JJ,’ he said finally, despite the fact that he shared the sergeant’s concerns. ‘It’s a helicopter insertion and a roll-up of some small compound; it will be over in hours. It’s a time-sensitive target, what we trained for back in Holsworthy.’ Matt closed the lid of the computer, effectively putting an end to the conversation. A lack of food and a week of exhausting combat coupled with subordinates who wanted to question every decision had worn on Matt’s patience.
‘Yeah, right. Well, we both know that the reason we’ve been stuffing around up here in Chora is so that the cats don’t have to justify their use of the helicopters or share them with anyone. Why are we getting them now anyway? It doesn’t make any sense to me. It’s probably some shit target that they didn’t want.’ JJ always referred to SAS as ‘the cats’, especially when he was pissed off at them. Matt knew that the truth was SAS were kicking goals with the helicopters at the moment. They were on a good run and he couldn’t blame the CO for continuing to use them up until now, but they probably needed a break to refit their own gear. Matt knew that he had been penalised by his command, rightly or wrongly, for his role in the defence of the compound against the Taliban attack, which was why they were out here rather than jumping from target to target on two-hour missions and then spending the remainder of the day back in the gym at Camp Russell. But now it was his turn to prove they were up to the even faster-paced helicopter operations.
‘JJ, don’t be concerned with what they are doing, mate. You just worry about us. There’s no point losing sleep over things you can’t change or influence.’ Matt sighed internally. It wasn’t the first time that he and JJ had been down this path.
‘Sure, let’s just hope that the pricks don’t take the birds while we’re out there, leaving us to walk home.’ Snorting, JJ shoved another spoon of noodles into his mouth, but missed. The noodles dribbled down his cheek.
‘I’m sure it’ll be fine. Let’s concentrate on what we can control, like getting out of here tomorrow morning. Six hours of driving back to TK and then a full planning cycle. It’s gonna be a busy day and I’m gonna need you on my side with this.’
JJ grunted his acknowledgment. Matt wasn’t convinced of his agreement though. JJ felt hard done by when it came to SAS and headquarters and it had a negative impact on the platoon. He’d have to address the sergeant’s attitude sooner or later, but for now he just wanted to focus on the task at hand and make sure the platoon survived it.
Matt opened the door of the heavy-armoured vehicle and stepped outside. The black of night was in complete contrast to the red lights of the command vehicle interior. He stood there for a moment and let his eyes slowly adjust to the night sky and the billions of stars above. A cool breeze whipped up and then disappeared back off into the quiet night.
Matt took off his combat body armour and placed it neatly on the ground, leaving the arm straps open in case he needed to pull it back on in a hurry. He placed his helmet next to the armour with the NVGs set up ready to be switched on, and put the M4 rifle just inside his swag, that was attached by a rope to the command vehicle.
Matt crawled into the small space. He was exhausted. The thin foam mattress and the old summer-weight army blanket did little to soften the rocks protruding from the harsh ground.
He could hear the muffled snickers of the commandos who were pulling security duties around the perimeter. One Bushmaster in every pair had a soldier manning a weapon system. The commandos were probably looking at each other through NVGs and talking over their patrol radios. Occasionally there was the distinctive sound of metal clicking or the whirr of thermal sites changing focus. Such noises could be fatal in the close quarters of the jungle, or even in a semi-rural environment, but out here on the open desert plateau it was different. They had three-sixty-degree views and the approaches were all covered by the .50-cal machine guns and the MK19 40mm grenade launchers. In the dark the platoon had technical overmatch against any weapon the enemy had, and for this reason the noises were comforting.
Overhead the dullest hum of a tactical drone, controlled somewhere out of Kandahar, provided another layer of safety and reassurance. The drone could see for miles all around the platoon’s vehicles. Sleep came over Matt in a wave, the type of unconsciousness only known by those who have pushed both body and mind well past their breaking point. It was akin to going under a general anaesthetic. Matt’s body instantly responded and started to repair. The sleep ensured that tired and sore muscles regenerated and energy levels rejuvenated.
• • •
High up the mountainside, a young Taliban spotter moved his position in order to get a better vantage point on the Australian forces. He had been walking for hours after seeing the vehicles earlier in the day. After talking to some goatherds, he had worked out the direction that the Australians would take and where he would be most likely to intercept them.
He concealed himself behind a rocky outcrop only a few kilometres away from the Australians. Cupping his hands, he lit a cigarette and peered down into the darkness of the valley below. His vigilance was rewarded as he spotted the faintest sliver of white light in an area that was familiar to him. It lasted a few seconds and then it was gone. He dragged deeply on the cigarette, little knowing that in doing so he was alerting the ever-watchful drone far above him to his presence.
The spotter sent an SMS to Faisal Khan, notifying him of the platoon’s location and anticipated driving route for the next morning. This message sealed his fate: it gave the drone the confirmation of hostile intent that it legally required.
Two minutes later, a nearby AC-130 Spectre gunship was vectored onto the target by the drone. The Spectre crew worked silently and methodically on the information. They unleashed the 105mm gun of destruction on the lonely dark figure below. Through the gun-sight the crew watched the Taliban sitting there. The thermal digital optics showed the moment that the Taliban’s body warmth spread across the ground like jam on toast. Somewhere down the valley yet another family had just lost a son.
The Spectre itself never felt remorse; it was a highly efficient killing machine devoid of emotion. This crew had spent hundreds of hours peering through green–black optics, securing their targets and eliminating them. They no longer even thought of the forms that they engaged with as people; the crew was merely a biological attachment to the war machine: a well-trained and tight unit in their electronic battle.
Matt slept through it all. Sometimes sleep like this is earned; to be dead to the world but still alive is a feeling only some people will ever know.
The Spectre continued its deathly flight home, deviating here and there to take more sons from their families. Judge, jury and executioner.
The circle of Australian Special Forces vehicles sat in the dark. The security piquet silently monitored the surroundings. So secure was the position that in the back of one of the vehicles the men were sufficiently relaxed to be playing cards in the red light. The next day, however, would be a different story. The next day, Yankee Platoon would receive a violent introduction to Objective Rapier. This meeting would have a profound impact on all their lives.