The Forgotten Land (9 page)

Three
Kurdish militiamen jumped from the back of the truck, proving the Australians’
fears correct. One of them approached the corpse of the first disguised Iraqi
who was shot while the other two jogged towards the Australians’ observation
post. All that remained of the OP now was an empty depression in the desert. As
the Kurds stepped down into the depression they kicked the sand looking for
clues. Meanwhile, the five Australians went over the actions they had taken as
they prepared to leave the position. Had a wrapper fallen out of a pocket? Had
they left anything behind that would provide evidence as to who they were, why
they were there or where they were now? No, not that any of them could think of
. . . apart from their footprints.

None
of the SASR soldiers were overly concerned. Given the situation and time they
had to escape, there had been little opportunity for them to cover their
withdrawal completely. It was more productive for them to simply bug out
rapidly, rather than trying to cover their trail, which vanished as they
reached the hard ground leading up to the mountain where they were now hidden.
The soldiers watched as the Kurds climbed back into their truck. The vehicle
began following the trail left in the sand and slowly, but steadily, moved
towards them.

 Steve
kept his eyes locked on the vehicle. “I’ll initiate the ambush if it’s
necessary.”

The
vehicle edged closer. Steve brought his binoculars up. He could see three men
sitting in the cabin, one driving, one passenger and the other sitting in
between them. He could not see into the back of the truck, but, it was becoming
increasingly clear that there were soldiers in the back. If they were unlucky,
they would soon find out how many.

The
Australian soldiers did not want to fight. A fire fight would result in a
heightened possibility of capture. They simply wanted to slip away unnoticed
and head back into Turkey. There were many misconceptions amongst the civilian
community about the Special Air Service Regiment. In their minds the SASR was a
small group of highly skilled, highly trained and highly motivated soldiers who
revelled in killing, lived for war and enjoyed inflicting pain on their enemy.
While it was true that every SASR soldier was trained to kill quickly and
efficiently and they looked forward to experiencing combat, their main role was
in fact neutral.

The
modern SASR soldiers were trained as forward observers. Undetected they would
move far in advance of friendly soldiers, usually deep behind enemy lines,
where they would set up observation posts and simply observe the enemy. They
would then relay the intelligence they gathered back to the friendly forces
behind them, who would use that information to their benefit. This was the task
given to the Australian SASR in Operation Anaconda in Afghanistan some months
before.

The
soldiers hidden on the mountain, watching the truck slowly coming towards them,
did not want to open fire because it would reveal their position. They would
rather remain hidden and let the hunters pass by. However, soldiers had been
killed and the five men of call sign Bravo One knew that their enemy would not
give up easily. It was more possible that within five minutes, they would find
themselves in a fire fight.

The
vehicle crawled closer, slowing as it came to the base of the hill. It was no
more than two hundred metres away now and the smell of diesel drifted up to
their position. With a roar, the truck surged forward and for the first twenty
metres, climbed the incline well. But it was an old truck and was not designed
for mountain ascents. Soon the wheels began skidding. The momentum of the truck
slowed and then stopped altogether. Refusing to give in, the driver put pedal
to metal and the diesel motor roared. The wheels skidded and slid. Small rocks
spat from the wheels and flew into the trees behind it.

The
soldiers could hear the Iraqis now, although their words were obscured. The
passenger was shouting and gesturing angrily to the driver who shrugged his
shoulders helplessly.

“What
does this prick think he’s driving? A fucking V-8 turbo Land Cruiser?” Scott
whispered.

“Alright
knock it off,” chuckled Steve.

Steve
continued watching them through his binoculars. The Iraqi passenger turned to
the driver and said something, before leaning out of the window and shouting a
command to the back of the vehicle. He banged the side of his door with his
hand. The engine dropped to an idle and the vehicle slid back several metres.
The driver was quick to pull on the hand brake before the backward momentum
increased.

“Oh
Christ, here we go,” muttered Dave as Iraqi soldiers spilled from the back of
the truck.

There
must have been close to forty soldiers. Half of them spread out to the right,
the other half to the left. Eight of the soldiers posed more of a concern,
however. Most of the Kurds wore civilian clothes, and carried AK-47s, which
meant they were probably local militiamen with little or no formal military
training. But a small number were dressed in neat, dark green military
uniforms, which spoke of discipline. They appeared to be the soldiers in charge
and were probably the full complement of the guard responsible for Hazareen.

It
was possible they were Republican Guard, but their rank, corps badges and caps
had been altered to make them look less like Iraqis and more like the newly
formed Kurdish military. There had been just two soldiers stationed in the
house last night, so the other six must have arrived that morning from the
opposite side of Barzan. It was now a distinct possibility that Hazareen and
his personal guard had died in the first contact. If a contact was to take
place these eight soldiers were the ones to drop first.

The
truck, now free of its load, began to crawl once more up the hill towards the
waiting men. The enemywere little more than 100 metres away and were clearly
visible now. For the most part, their faces were tense and they had fear in
their eyes. They knew that enemy soldiers had taken out the Toyota and killed
the men inside, including the General who they had sworn to protect. As for the
eight disguised Iraqi soldiers, if they lived they knew Saddam would not be
pleased with them. They also knew that their enemy was around the area
somewhere.

The
militiamen were patrolling clumsily forward alongside the truck and Steve was
thankful it was not an APC. If it had been, the small patrol would have been
well and truly up shit creek not only without a paddle, but probably without a
canoe.

The
pursuers came closer. Christ, thought Steve, if they continued on this course
they would be on top of them within minutes. Sooner rather than later, Steve
would have to initiate the contact and he knew it.

Slowing
as it came to a steeper part of the incline, the wheels skidded and, for a
moment, the truck stopped. The man at the wheel stamped on the accelerator, the
engine roared, the wheels span again, spewing out churned earth and rocks. The
vehicle lurched forward, continuing to defy the hill.

Steve
dipped his head slowly so that he was staring down the ACOG scope. He fixed the
crosshairs over the driver, exhaled, and fired a short burst. The windscreen
shattered and blood sprayed in a fine mist which tinted the windows claret. The
soldier who had been driving sat up in the seat with a grimace before sliding
to the right. His head slammed into the side window. The two Minimis barked
into life and three Kurds were down before any of them could react.

The
militiamen were screaming at one another now, in panic or confusion. They began
firing from the hip blindly. It was clear they did not know where their enemy
lay. A thundering BOOM resounded and a 66 rocket tore through the air, slamming
into the engine block of the immobile truck. The explosion that followed sent a
shock wave through the five hidden soldiers. For the Kurdish militiamen
standing closer to the truck, it must have been much worse. As the smoke
settled, it became obvious just how much worse. Several were down. The ones who
had been closer to the explosion were dead. One was decapitated, another was
missing a leg as well as half his face and another had a large hole where his
chest had been.

A
number of other Kurds were on the ground writhing, screaming or moaning. The
dull, metallic thunk of a 40mm grenade launcher added to the chaos. The grenade
sailed through the shattered windscreen of the truck and exploded violently
inside the cabin. The dead driver’s passengers, who had been badly wounded by
the rocket, but who were still mobile, had been halfway out of the vehicle
before the grenade exploded in the confined space of the cabin. Life was torn
from them in a murderous roar of fire and shrapnel.

Some
of the militiamen were now running away from the Australians, sometimes turning
to fire. Others were running forward and being dropped systematically by the
murderous Minimi and M4 fire coming at them. Meanwhile the eight disguised
Iraqi soldiers had gone straight into an ambush drill and were fire-and-moving
off to the right.

It
was a textbook manoeuvre and they knew what they were doing. They knew they had
been ambushed by an enemy in front of them somewhere on higher ground and they
were attempting to outflank the Australians.

Dave
saw the threat. “Get those bastards!” he screamed, firing the Minimi from his
shoulder in long bursts. Two Iraqis went down. The remainder, seeing Dave’s
position, returned fire but continued their rapid movement off to the right.
Dave threw himself to the ground as bullets zipped, whizzed and cracked over
and around him. His face was cut as small splinters of wood exploded from a
round slamming into a tree nearby.

Some
of the militiamen had also seen Dave kneel up and aimed their fire directly
towards the position.

“I
see ’em,” yelled Will. He brought his rifle to bear and fired off a 40mm
grenade. It travelled towards the Iraqi soldiers at 90 metres per second,
impacting with a deep boom.

Another
of the soldiers was down before the remaining men disappeared into dead ground
off to the right.

“Withdraw!”
roared Steve. “I’m moving, cover me!”

The
firing from the Australian position intensified as Steve got to his feet,
sprinted back and threw himself to the ground. The air around him came to life
as hot lead shrieked past, thudding into tree trunks or earth.

“Two
and three, go!” yelled Steve.

Will
and Dave sprang up, sprinted back and dived down. The Kurds were running up the
slope towards them now, firing from the hip and shouting. Some were kneeling to
take aim, but few took the time. Most of the bullets zipping past the
withdrawing Australians were inaccurate, fired in haste and without care.

The
fire coming down at the Kurds from the Australian patrol above, however, was
creating devastation. Half the men who had dispersed from the truck were down
and several had fled towards Barzan, their rifles dropped and forgotten.

The
Australian soldiers continued to conduct a fighting withdrawal. One or two of
them at a time moving back while the remainder gave covering fire.

Steve
lined an advancing Kurd up through the holographic sight and fired two rounds.
One round ripped through the Kurd’s chest, the second went through his throat,
spattering the foliage behind him with blood. The man dropped to the ground
motionless.

Hollywood
would have it that when someone was shot, they were thrown back and even flew
through the air. The reality was that a bullet cut the air between 800 and 1000
metres per second, was red hot and simply passed straight through anything soft
in the way such as a human body. When a person was shot, there was an impact at
the point of entry, pink mist sprayed into the air, and if the bullet was
accurate and well placed, the soldier simply crumpled to the floor, as if he
had been suddenly knocked unconscious. Unless a soldier was wearing reliable
body armour when he was shot, it was rare to see anyone fly through the air.

Steve
took a deep breath and fired a short burst at three advancing Kurds. He stood
up again and sprinted back. Throwing himself to the ground, he grunted as a
rock dug into his pelvis. The burst had wounded two men: one in the arm, the
other in the leg. Both were down, screaming their pain to the sky. Steve had
landed in tall grass and could not see the third enemy. He leant up and saw the
Kurd kneeling down beside his two wounded comrades. He was shouting at them, as
if being shot was their own fault. Again he started firing wildly at the
withdrawing Australians. Steve took aim and sent a short burst that ripped
through his chest. The man dropped motionless beside the two screaming men.
Several other militiamen had seen where Steve had fired from and directed their
assault towards him. Bullets zinged past him, one thudding powerfully into the
ground just two metres to his left. He kept his head down until the incoming
rounds found interest elsewhere. Steve looked up again, took aim and shot another
Kurd who was running towards them, shouting angrily and firing his AK47. He
sprayed the weapon from side to side as if he were playing a leading role in
The A-Team. The round took him full in the face and he dropped without a sound.
Steve ripped out the near empty magazine, shoved it down his shirt and pulled
out a fresh one before slapping it into the weapon.