Driftwood (30 page)

With an encouraging smile and a gentle nod, Adam tapped his guitar three times and they began strumming and singing ‘Unafraid to Love'. The crowd held their arms high in the air, as lighters and illuminated mobile phones swayed from side to side. Almost everyone sang the lyrics along with them.

The entire time she sang, Taylor's gaze rested on Jay. The moment was so intimate between them she could have sworn there was only the two of them there. Jay sang every word with her, the intensity behind his chocolate-brown eyes speaking of the deep love he held for her. True love really did exist.

The audience gave an ovation, and Taylor bowed. Jay blew her a kiss and she caught it, clutching it to her chest and mouthing, ‘I love you.'

Jay acknowledged her words with a tender smile as he stepped towards the stage and carefully lifted her down. Once her boots touched the ground, he placed his lips near her ear, his warm breath sending shivers down her back. ‘I love you too, Taylor. The only thing I can promise in this life, and the one thing I can do every waking day with certainty, is to love you with all my heart.'

Happy tears stung Taylor's eyes as she wrapped her arms tighter around his neck, breathing in his familiar scent. They melted into each other's embrace as they shared a passionate, mind-blowing kiss that had the power to make the millions of stars in the glorious country sky above ignite.

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‘You sound a little edgy today, Dean, are you okay? Do you still feel safe there?'

‘Yep, I'm right as rain, sis. Just a little tired, that's all.' Dean swallowed hard. He hated lying, it was a trait he tried his very best to avoid, but in this instance he felt it was justified. His sister didn't need to be worrying about him too. ‘How's Dad going, any improvement on last week?'

Kim sighed. ‘Nope, he's still the same. If anything, I reckon he's been a little worse this past week. He's so bloody angry at the world all the time. He snapped his physiotherapist's head off yesterday, the poor woman. Even Max can't seem to cheer him up any more, and this is the grandson that used to brighten Dad's every waking day before the . . .' She paused and Dean thought he heard her sniffle. It broke his heart to know she was hurting and that he couldn't be there to wrap his arms around her. ‘Dad's accident, his injuries . . . it scares me to death, Dean. What if he never heals, you know, on the inside? The stubborn bugger bluntly refuses to go to the psychiatrists and I can't drag him there kicking and screaming. I've told him he can't stay living on his own like this, but he refuses to listen. I'm at my wits' end with him, to be honest.'

Dean couldn't admit that what was happening to his usually tough-as-nails dad scared the hell out of him, too, even more than this damn war he was fighting. But he had to stay strong for his family, no matter what — giving in to his emotions was not an option right now; Kim, Max and his dad needed him. He was all they had.

He shook his head, feeling utterly helpless. ‘Shit, hey, sorry to hear that, sis. Let's not give up hope yet, though, okay? I reckon Dad will pull through. He's a tough old bugger. You'll see.' Dean squeezed his eyes shut, willing his voice to stay even, hoping he sounded somewhat convincing. ‘I wish I could be there to take some of the pressure off you, Kimmy, especially when you're still running the trail rides on top of all of this. But only another couple of weeks and I'm coming home for fourteen days' relief leave. I know it's been a lot for you to handle there on your own, I mean, you know, since Mum —'

Kim cut him off: ‘I don't want you worrying about me, Dean. I've got my big girl boots on and can handle things here at home. And I love doing the trail rides. The horses are like my therapy: just being around them seems to heal the heartache, if only for a few hours. You stay safe and look after yourself over there, you hear me?' Her voice was strong, but Dean knew his iron-willed sister was beginning to crumble under the massive weight she was carrying on her tiny shoulders.

Heavy footsteps pulled Dean's gaze from the wall he'd been lightly kicking with the scuffed toe of his tan army boot. He turned to see his childhood mate, Tommy Walters, his trademark joker-like smile creasing his round, freckled face.

‘Hey Lockwood, the briefing starts in two minutes and I wouldn't be late, the sergeant's been in a shocker of a mood today, if you haven't already noticed.'

Dean nodded, giving Tommy the thumbs up. ‘I gotta go, Kimmy. Say hi to Dad and Max for me.'

‘Will do, hopefully I'll catch Dad on a good day tomorrow. And Max really misses you . . . he can't wait to see you —
I
can't wait to see you. It'll be good to be able to spend Christmas together for once.'

Dean cleared the lump from his throat, blinking his wet eyes. How were they going to get through their very first Christmas without their mum? ‘I know, I really miss you and the little fella too. Give Max a kiss and cuddle from me, will you? Love you, Kim.'

‘Love you, too, little brother. Talk again soon.'

The PowerPoint briefing included aerial shots of the village and maps showing the route the patrol would be taking — including the likely enemy positions in rocky hillsides that were perfect for a Taliban ambush on the convoy.

Sergeant Harrison's bushy black eyebrows creased into one as he firmly tapped the large drop-down screen with a ruler. ‘The area we're entering is heavily populated and as you can all see, well built up around the village. The chance of contact is highly likely. We will have US air support, but watch each other's backs like hawks, fellas.'

This was met with nods, the half-dozen men of the engineer detachment concentrating on Harrison's every word; their lives and the lives of their comrades depended on a complete understanding of the mission and its risks.

Harrison turned to face his team, stroking his neatly trimmed moustache as he paused for a few seconds. ‘The heads from the mentoring team and the Afghan National Army want to show the Taliban they can't have freedom of movement here any more. As usual, our job is to search choke points on the way and likely sites for IEDs and weapons and ammo caches in the village.' Harrison removed his reading glasses and leant on the desk, unsmiling. ‘Any questions?'

The room remained quiet. Missions such as this were common and everyone knew the drill: they had already cleared many villages of dozens of IEDs, and the operation today would be no different.

‘Good. Ready to move at oh-four-hundred tomorrow.' Harrison turned to leave.

Dean knew his work was going to be cut out for him as the nearby village was renowned for buried and cunningly concealed improvised explosive devices — IEDs. Bombs in Afghanistan were planted everywhere like seedlings; children, the elderly and families were not exempt from the disfiguring or deadly consequences of stepping on one. Locals living in the affected villages were like prisoners in mud-walled compounds, and venturing out to meet neighbours or to collect food was fraught with the danger of stepping on a bomb. It was Dean's — and his beloved dog, Indy's — job to make sure the Aussie diggers and the fledgling soldiers of the ANA — the Afghan National Army — weren't killed or maimed by an IED. At the same time, the work he and Indy were doing was helping make the country that little bit safer for the people who lived here.

In the pre-dawn gloom, Dean and Indy and the other army engineers climbed aboard their vehicles. At the same time, the Australian infantrymen of the mentoring teams and their Afghan charges were doing last-minute radio checks and loading and cocking their weapons. As per routine, the vehicles were armour-hulled Bushmasters, the tough-as-guts trucks built to protect ten passengers from roadside bombs, landmines and RPGs — rocket-propelled grenades. Some of the weaponry the Taliban was using dated back thirty years or more to the Russian invasion; it seemed like this bloody place had been at war since time began. Dean and Indy were in the lead vehicle, which was always the one at highest risk as it would be the first vehicle to drive over a mine if there was one planted in the road. It was first in the sights of a Taliban mujahideen hiding in the distance, waiting to press a button like a car alarm remote to trigger a bomb on the roadside.

As the convoy rolled out of the gates, Dean glanced behind him at Camp Baker Military Base and the dirt-filled hesco walls topped with razor wire that protected his dusty home away from home. Would he be making it back alive today? Above the camp on an elongated pole, the high-powered rocket and mortar sensor rotated, giving them 360-degree, twenty-four-hour-a-day coverage. This high-tech device was essential to their survival, since the military base was a regular target of the insurgents. Only last week they had all dropped to the ground as the distinctive alarm had rung out, and the 107mm rocket landed in a hesco barrier, only metres from a soldier enjoying a midnight cigarette. In Afghanistan, living life on the edge took on a whole new meaning.

With stinking hot and dry summers and freezing cold winters, Afghanistan was one of the most trying places in the world to live but within the confines of Camp Baker, the Australian government endeavoured to make their soldiers feel at home, as much as that was possible, given the harsh environment. The Aussie diggers had even planted lawn in their small courtyard, each and every one of them very proud of the fact it was the only patch of grass, albeit a bit brown, in the entire Kandahar province. Dean often strolled around on it shoeless, enjoying the sensation of grass crunching underfoot; at war, the simple things could give so much pleasure. Afghanistan had taught him a lot, especially not to take anything, or anyone, for granted.

At Camp Baker — named after Trooper Baker, who lost his life in a Black Hawk crash in 1996 — Dean could surf the net behind walls thick enough to stop a Taliban rocket while lying on his bed in air-conditioning; watch telly or DVDs in the communal TV room; play touch footy with his fellow diggers out in what they liked to call the CBD of Camp Baker; hang out with Tommy in the mess over a coffee or a soft drink — there was no booze allowed; or spend a few hours in the well-equipped gym, a common occurrence for him. Dean's strong physique was solid proof of the many countless hours he'd spent thinking. Here, exercise, particularly lifting weights, was the only time he found he could shut off from everything, especially from this war, giving him much needed time to think. Back home, his Ducati Streetfighter motorbike was his escape, his time to contemplate, and the freedom he felt as he cruised the open roads was unsurpassable. His dad had nicknamed him Sage when he was a kid because of his deep thinking, and the nickname had stuck into adulthood.

Sitting down beside Tommy, Dean ruffled Indy's coat and the Blue Heeler nestled her head in his lap. He couldn't imagine being in this hellish shithole without her by his side. The bond between them was unparalleled; man and dog had a complete dependence on each other. Dean relied on Indy's ability to sniff out bombs and Indy relied on Dean for everything a dog needs to survive: food, water, a safe place to sleep and, of course, love. As an Explosive Detection Dog, or EDD, Indy was an essential addition to the military effort in Afghanistan. In a place that had no neutral ground, dogs, with their keen sense of smell, were the frontline weapons in the war against IEDs. Their presence on the ground also had other benefits, such as helping to control antsy or panicked villagers during searches, hunting for hidden weapons and ammunition, and even boosting morale — Dean hadn't met a digger yet who didn't want to ruffle Indy's coat when he passed her. Indy always gave him hope, never judged him, kept the many secrets he told her and made him smile when he was down, which was quite often out here. And she was loyal, with nerves of steel, willing to protect him at any given moment, as he would her. Indy's work was play to her and all she expected when she found an IED was her favourite toy, a squishy ball.

The ride was rocky and slow; the convoy section commander had taken them off-road to confuse the Taliban, who would logically place mines and IEDs there. With dust enveloping the vehicles, Dean closed his eyes and allowed his thoughts to go back over the phone conversation he'd had with his sister last night. He couldn't tell her the truth, that, no, he didn't feel safe. That something didn't feel right. But did
anything
in this war-ravaged hellhole of a country ever feel right? And after suddenly losing his mum, Patricia, early this year, how was he meant to cope with the deterioration of his dad? He prayed Tony Lockwood would make a full recovery from the horrific accident that had killed Patty ten months ago on Valentine's Day, but if he were honest, Dean doubted he would. How could a man
ever
get over being the one responsible for the love of his life's death?