The Forgotten Land by Keith McArdle Page B

awaiting take off from the airbase. A low-pitched
shriek filled the air, putting the noise at the base to shame as six
Euro-fighters cut the sky in close formation. They appeared above the thick
trees that concealed the airbase from Steve’s sight. The aircraft rapidly
climbed to altitude and within minutes were tiny specks against the sky.
Another sustained roar grew above the mixed noise and two air to air refuellers
lumbered into the sky, a light brown smudge of burned fuel streaming from their
huge jet engines.
    “Someone’s
about to get their arse kicked,” chuckled Scott from beside Steve.
    “Tell
me about it,” shouted Steve as the loudest roar he had ever heard thundered
across the sky. He could feel the power vibrating through his chest. Scott said
something else, but it was lost in the noise.
    The
perpetrator showed itself, a B-52 heavy bomber cut the sky, on its way to
deliver a pay load of devastation. Three more B-52s took off and as their size
diminished in the sky and their noise faded, the airbase which had emitted a
dull roar was now a soft burr. Steve watched as sixteen Blackhawk helicopters
departed, closely followed by seven Chinooks. Leading the convoy were nine
Apaches and five Cobras.
    With
the main event now over, the noise from the airbase was almost nonexistent. The
soldiers packed their gear away and walked to the Land Rover. As he pulled the
parachutes away, Steve could see no obvious damage to the vehicle. Detaching
the vehicle from the skidboard, he climbed into the driver’s seat and turned
the key. The vehicle started first time.
    “Nice
one,” said Dave.
    As
the engine was left to warm up, the soldiers detached the parachutes, packed
them away and placed them in the back of the Land Rover. They would drop them
off at Colemerik where, hopefully, the parachutes would make their way back to
the American riggers in Qatar.
    They
drove towards the airbase at a sedate fifty kilometres per hour, giving the
British soldiers guarding the gate plenty of time to see them. The last thing
they wanted was the British to think them a threat and open fire. Coming to a
gentle stop near the gate, Steve nodded at the nearest guard.
    “G’day
mate,” he said.
    “Afternoon,
Sir. May I see your identification please,” the guard was clearly aware that
the soldiers before him were not British. He kept one hand on the SA-80 assault
rifle slung across the front of his body.
    “Yeah
no worries,” Steve held the ID card up for the guard to inspect. The others
followed suit.
    “Thank
you, Sir, which unit are you with?”
    “We’re
with the Australians,” answered Steve.
    “Oh
okay,” replied the guard, who was clearly not aware there were any Australians
on the base. In truth there was only a token Australian force in Colemerik. The
majority of them, including six Australian FA-18 fighters, their pilots and
ground crew, had not yet arrived.
    The
guard nodded at the other British soldiers, who raised the boom gate to let
vehicle pass. Steve drove through with a nod of thanks and the soldiers found
themselves travelling on a long, flat, winding road towards the distant
buildings of Colemerik. One kilometre to their right was the flight line, where
huge numbers of aircraft were lined up in neat rows. There were fighters,
fighter control, transport, bombers, helicopters. Steve saw most of them
originated from NATO countries.
    The
Australian area was miniscule compared to the other forces inhabiting
Colemerik. It was called Camp Linacre, but with only an advance force
populating the area, Steve and the others had plenty of room to relax for the
night. They met some of the Australians at the mess that night and made small talk
over dinner. The SASR soldiers did not talk about why they were there or when
they would leave, but the other Australians knew who they were. They also knew
that before long Steve and his soldiers would be in circumstances far more
dangerous and far less comfortable.

CHAPTER
4
    As
a