The Forgotten Land (42 page)

Matt
threw the smoke grenade with a grunt. Scott threw his a moment later. The two
203 grenade launchers spoke a second later with a hollow thunk. Matt and Scott
threw another smoke grenade each and again the 203s fired. Within thirty
seconds the APCs were hidden from sight by various colours of smoke, and the
Australians were in full sprint towards the loud roar of the tank’s engine. The
smoke screen would last maybe ninety seconds.

“Go,
go!” shouted Steve as the monstrous body of the tank emerged from the smoke,
its massive gun searching for a target.

Scott
screamed and slung the mag 58. He clambered up the tank, straddled the gun, and
within moments was above the hatch. Steve followed him. Matt and Will ran to
the rear of the armoured vehicle, covering their comrades from ground fire.

The
105mm gun fired blindly, the aftershock almost knocking Steve and Scott
unconscious.

“Fuck
you!” screamed Scott, turning the locking latch and pulling the hatch open. The
hatch could be opened on the outside for safety, so that if the crew were
incapacitated, rescuers could gain access in order to extract them. Ironic.

Scott
pushed the muzzle of the mag 58 into the hatch with a snarl and fired several
short bursts. With luck the bullets had bounced around the inside of the tank,
wounding or killing its occupants. The 105mm fired again. Scott and Steve
cringed as their ears rang.

“Eat
that!” Scott roared into the hole. He dropped a grenade in then closed and
locked the hatch.

They
could feel the explosion but it was dampened by the thick armour. Scott opened
the hatch. Smoke, groans and the smell of cordite drifted out of the hole. But
despite this, the 105mm gun fired again, almost in revenge. The noise and
shockwave knocked the two soldiers to the core.

Scott
reached into one of his pouches.

“This’ll
fix ‘em,” he said to Steve, dropping a white phosphorous grenade into the hatch
before closing and locking it.

“Bloody
oath it will,” replied Steve.

The
grenade exploded with a dull thud beneath the thick armour and smoke began
pouring from slight gaps in the hatch. They could hear the screams and smell
the burning soldiers within the tank. White phosphorous was a substance that
reacted violently with oxygen and burned constantly as long as it remained in
contact with oxygen. The only way to combat it was to dive into a pool of
water, which was impossible for the crew of the Iraqi tank. The tank stopped
and the engine stalled. The 105mm did not fire again. Several loud shuddering
explosions echoed through the body of the tank and it took the soldiers moments
to realise that the white phosphorous grenade was causing the 105mm shells
stored in the tank’s magazine to cook off.

“Shit!”
shouted Steve, “get back!”

The
Australians withdrew from the tank. They sprinted back to their position behind
the large rocky outcrop. The 25mm guns of the APCs burst into life once more as
the smoke grenades died.

Heleena
was crouching with her hands over her ears. She had a look of terror on her
face. Will realised that the tank’s shells had exploded less than fifty metres
from her. Will pulled her hands away and pulled her to him. “It’s ok,” he said.
“You’re safe.” But with 25 mm rounds ripping through the air around him he
realised how stupid that sounded.

“Bravo
One, this is Alpha Seven Four, over,” Matt’s radio burst into life.

“Thank
Christ for that,” muttered Steve.

CHAPTER
20

Major
Breckner, 3 Commando, Royal Marines strode down the clinically clean hallway
with purpose. He had a manila folder in his hand. Making a sharp left he
stopped at the third door on the right. Ignoring the “Knock and Wait” sign he
barged through the door.

The
five intelligence officers looked up from their computers. One of them, a
captain, stood up and was about to remind the major that the knock and wait
applied to everyone, regardless of rank.

“Shut
up,” said Major Breckner, “and sit down, I don’t give a fuck about your little
knock and wait directive. This isn’t fucking primary school.”

“Sir,
it’s just that—“

“I
don’t give a fuck!” Breckner shouted. The Captain sat down.

“You
were supposed to return my call ten minutes ago!”

“Now,”
Major Breckner continued, “we have an SAS patrol in Northern Iraq, they are in
heavy contact with the enemy and we need to get ‘em out of there quick! What
can you scrounge up within an hour?”

“Scrounge
up, Sir?” asked the Captain.

“Christ
boy, would you like me to draw you a fucking picture?” he snarled, “those boys
are almost surrounded and fighting for their lives, they won’t make it past
sundown! Can you fucking well find out if we have any air assets, preferably
choppers that we can send in to exfil them?”

“Right
you are, Sir,” said the Captain signalling for the others to stop what they
were doing.

Within
the minute all five officers were on phones. Breckner sat looking around. His
eyes stopped to rest on a poster near the main door. “Operational security
includes you!” A stern-faced sergeant was pointing at the reader. Within three
minutes all phones had been hung up.

“Sorry,
Sir, no choppers are available, the RAF have fifteen Chinooks in Northern Iraq
but three are unserviceable, six are currently flying and the rest are on
standby for a para insertion.”

“Standby?
Surely a hot exfil’d take precedence over standby?” growled Breckner.

“Sorry,
Sir, apparently not.”

“Anything?
Do we have anything? Lynxs? Even bloody fixed wing?”

Breckner
asked.

“Sorry,
Sir, we rang every unit in the area and nothing is available. All units are
either flying, about to fly, on standby or in a maintenance phase.”

“Right,
not your fault. Well at least I tried the correct channels first,” Breckner
said.

“Sir?”

“It
doesn’t matter,” he said, making for the door.

“Sir,
I wasn’t aware we had SAS in that area of Iraq?”

“We
don’t,” Breckner said looking back at the captain, the open door in his hand,
“but the Australians do, and in a war it doesn’t matter which bloody country
they’re from. What matters is that they’re on the same side and at the moment
those boys are in pretty deep shit. Thanks for your help.”

Within
minutes Breckner was back at his office and on the phone. He had known there
probably would not have been air assets available for an unplanned operation,
but he had to cover himself. Now he would use his contacts to get what he
needed.

“Captain
Lock speaking.”

“Locky,
mate, how’s the war been treating you?” asked Breckner.

“Who’s
this?”

“Matty,”
said Major Breckner. He hadn’t talked to Captain Lock for the better part of
two months, so it was no wonder the Captain did not recognise the voice.

“Matty...Matty,”
said Lock slowly, trying to unlock the gates of his memory.

“Breckner,
Matty Breckner!”

“Ah,
Brecks! How are you old man?”

“Not
too bad, been busy?”

“We
had a mass casualty evacuation yesterday which wasn’t much fun. Got the old
heart beating let me tell you!”

“Doesn’t
sound like much fun,” said Breckner.

“Mind
you, our door gunners had a hell of a time. They got some good target practice
as we came in to land. A couple of times I thought we were gone; the enemy fire
was so close to the chopper.”

“Shit,
mate. Listen it’s funny you should mention a mass cas mission. I might have
something similar for you.”

“Go
on.”

“I
need a serious favour. Can you help?”

“If
I can, I will.”

Breckner
explained his need for immediate exfil.

“I’m
not scheduled to fly today. One of our aircraft is being serviced which will
take a day or two. But I have the feeling another is available. Hang on let me
find out.”

The
phone went silent. Breckner picked up his mobile phone and dialled another
number.

“Sergeant
Williams here.”

“Chris,
are you busy? This is Major Breckner.”

“Nope,
nothing on for the next four days, but then we get inserted to you know where.
Two Commando will be there too. It’ll be a blast, the jundies won’t know what
hit ’em.”

“A
job just came up, you interested?”

“Maybe,
Sir, depends.”

“An
Australian SAS patrol is in deep shit in Northern Iraq, near Barzan. It’s close
to the border of Turkey. All we need is five good men for fire support, just to
put some defence down for the choppers as the guys approach and board.”

“Sounds
interesting, I’ll organise some blokes for you, Sir. Give me a call again in a
half hour.”

“Done,”
said Breckner said. He was about to dial another number when Lock returned to
the phone.

“You
there, Matty?”

“Certainly
am,” Breckner replied.

“Good.
We’re on. We have two Lynxs available. Keep it quiet though because none of the
bosses know.”

“Thanks
Locky, I owe you one.”

“A
carton of beer should cover it, mate. Listen. Be on the flight line with
whoever else you’re bringing in ninety minutes.”

“We’ll
be there.”

“And
Matty, because we’ve got two choppers we can fill the first with fire support,
so don’t be shy. Bring as many as you can. This sounds like a serious gig.”

“I’ve
got some Marines eager to get amongst it. I want to fill both Lynxs with fire
support types and with some luck we’ll have a Chinook to exfil the blokes on
the ground. I’m going to try and scrounge up some Paras or SAS boys, whoever’s
interested.”

“Excellent!
Don’t be late!”

“Okay!
See you soon, mate.”

“Yup,”
said Chris. He sounded excited.

Breckner
was quickly on the phone to someone else.

“Captain
Booth.”

“Dave,
there’s a serious shit fight up in Northern Iraq. You got anyone who might be
interested?”

“Yup,
only one though,” Booth said.

“One
is better than none. Tell him to be on the flight line in eighty minutes,”
instructed Breckner.

“Which
end?”

“The
Lynx end. We’ve got two going up and I am trying to get a Chinook and a couple
of gunships.”

“Right,
he’ll be there.” “Okay, thanks, Dave.”

In
seconds he was on the phone again to Corporal Patterson.

“Wayne,
Breckner here. We have a serious problem up in Northern Iraq. A few boys need
extracting. I’m trying to get some fire support for the choppers.”

“Shit,
Sir, we’d love to help, but we’re on standby for Basra.” “Bloody standby’s
killin’ me. Okay, Wayne, keep your head down.”

“Give
’em hell, Sir.”

Within
thirty minutes Breckner had organised a fire support team, comprised of five
Royal Marines, one British Special Air Service trooper, four Ghurkhas, three US
Rangers and two US Delta Force operatives. He had organised two Lynx
helicopters and a Chinook for the Australian Special Air Service soldiers and
their equipment. He had also asked for two attack choppers, an Apache and a
Cobra as escorts, but he was waiting to hear if his request was successful. He
had initially wanted a British Apache, but they were all busy, so he had
contacted the Americans, who were always willing to help. If they did not call
back within thirty minutes he would have to leave and just hope for the best.

He
was lost in thought when Major Douglas burst into the room.

“Just
what the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?” the major asked.

Major
Douglas was the commanding officer of the Lynx helicopter detachment in
Northern Iraq and Breckner had hoped he would not find out about his little
escapade, until they had lifted off. But it seemed Douglas had heard the
whisperings on the grape vine.

“What
do you mean?” asked Breckner, playing dumb.

“The
bloody Lynxs! You’re using two without my permission for some bloody suicidal
mission to support a couple of soldiers who aren’t even British!”

Breckner
nodded. “Oh that.”

“Yes
that! You can’t have the choppers, they are on standby for medivac!”

“Standby,”
said Breckner, shaking his head. “I understand they are on standby, but being on
standby for something that might happen as opposed to utilising the aircraft
for a real mission is a no brainer. I reckon your pilots would be of the same
opinion.”

“What
do you know?” asked Douglas. “You’re not a pilot!”

Anger
coursed through Breckner but he remained calm. “No, I am not, but I know a few
of your pilots and they would rather go in and save these soldiers than lounge
around, sipping coffee, reading pornos, or watching some movie for the fifth
time in a month! Those poor bastards out there are getting slotted!”

“I
don’t care what you think. I will not have my aircraft misused like this!”

“Misused?”
Breckner asked.

“Bloody
misused, yes! They aren’t even British. You should know better, I’m going to
cancel the mission.”

“I
should know better?” roared Breckner. “Those helicopters are built to fly in
war, to infil and exfil soldiers and those fucking guns hanging off the side
are there to kill the enemy.”

“To
 break  contact,”  Douglas  corrected  him.  His
 superior demeanour had been replaced with genuine concern.

“Fucking
words, mate. ‘Break contact’, ‘slot the enemy’, it’s the same damn thing! These
choppers will fly today. I don’t give a fuck that those soldiers aren’t
British, they are our allies and they are fighting for their fucking lives! I
won’t sit back while they are killed because of some red tape! You’d better be
ready to ground your precious pilots when they get back because they have just
saved the lives of their brothers. You should know better Major Douglas!”

Douglas
was about to defend himself, but did not get the chance.

“I
don’t want to hear it. Just get out,” said Breckner.

Douglas
left without a word.

“Fuck!”
Breckner roared. His phone rang. “Major Breckner.”

“We’re
good to go, Sir,” said a man with a strong American accent. “We got an Apache
and a Cobra ready to rock. Where d’ya want ’em?”

“To
the British side of the flight line. They’ll know where to go, the other
aircraft will be taxiing in about forty minutes.”

“You
got it, we’ll be there in thirty,” the man said. “Thanks for this,” Breckner
said.

“No
problem, Sir, we’ll do anything for a scrap,” he chuckled.

“By
the sounds of it they won’t be disappointed they came. Have a good day.”
Breckner hung up.

Grabbing
his rifle and belt kit, Breckner checked the safety, slapped a magazine in,
cocked it and slung it over his shoulder. Half an hour later and he was
drinking coffee in the British helicopter waiting areas. He was watching the
distant Lynx crews perform start up checks. A group of Royal Marine Commandos
were chatting softly nearby and the Americans were lounging around on the other
side of him. He assumed one of them was Delta Force because of his shoulder
length, unkempt hair. The man was sucking on a potent smelling cigarette.

“Bit
of a shit fight?” asked a voice. Major Breckner turned to face a well-built man
with messy hair and a weapon by his side.

“You
the bloke Captain Booth sent?” asked Breckner, assuming he was from the Special
Air Service.

“Yup,
name’s Pup,” said the man holding out his hand.

“Major
Breckner.” They shook hands.

Pup
nodded and slung his rifle. “Should be interesting, I hear there’s a bit of a
disagreement?” he asked.

“You
could say that,” Breckner replied. He had grown accustomed to the
non-conventional rules by which the SAS abided and accepted Pup had not
acknowledged his rank. A group of Ghurkhas walked in, talking and laughing in
their native Nepalese.

They
were only small men and their friendly, good-natured faces often gave people
the mistaken idea that they were gentle, peace loving soldiers. The Ghurkha
Regiment was in fact populated by some of the best trained, fiercest soldiers
in the world.