Battle born, p.1
Battle Born, page 1
Copyright © Nathan Best
First published 2022
This book is copyright. Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of private study, research, criticism or review as permitted under the Copyright Act, no part may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without written permission.
All inquiries should be made to the publishers.
Big Sky Publishing Pty Ltd
PO Box 303, Newport, NSW 2106, Australia
Phone: 1300 364 611
Fax: (61 2) 9918 2396
Email: info@bigskypublishing.com.au
Web: www.bigskypublishing.com.au
Cover design and typesetting: Think Productions
Title: Book Title
ISBN: 978-1-922765-75-8
For those who have served and remain serving in the military the world over. Your sacrifices, bravery and dedication are unrivalled.
I am in debt to my four military advisors for their openness, support, and constructive advice as I carried Battle Born into the light. Mick, Troy, Keamo and Adam you truly walk this earth as men and legends. Thank you.
To the force multipliers and battlefield space enablers who are Combat Controllers.
For Steph, always.
Everyone knows everyone’s business
CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
CHAPTER ONE
Rainer Toussaint
Northern Waziristan
Afghanistan/Pakistan Border
Blinking his eyes slowly, Rainer peered at the grey landscape through the lens’ of the L3Harris AN/PVS031A night vision binoculars strapped over the top of his head. Hidden behind a stand of boulders at a bend in the dirt road to his front, Rainer felt secure in the early dark of the night. As dusk fell, he had slipped an anti-infrared hood and cloak over his camouflage uniform and settled in to wait for his contact to arrive. Rainer’s six foot two frame was folded among the rocks with his knees resting on the hard surface. Rainer was used to long hours of discomfort from not moving and the aching pain it induced in his body. He had learnt to turn that pain into a light thrill of pleasure. Rainer felt a surge of self-pride that he was able to maintain his resilience at a high level. The only movement he allowed himself was to ripple his lips and adjust his jaw slightly.
At 30 years old, Rainer Toussaint was an experienced combat veteran turned contractor; a purveyor of very specialised skills.
Spotting movement in the distance on the road, Rainer stiffened and waited. A figure came into focus in the binoculars. Rainer intently scanned the outline of a man walking towards him along the rocky path. Following behind were two horses and three donkeys. The animals looked unhappy but obedient. Tensing for action, Rainer reached slowly down to his right hip and slid a Wildsteer WING Tactic knife from its sheath. To make his passage through Pakistan hassle free he had travelled without carrying a primary or secondary weapon. The main weapons of his trade were safely protected and loaded in packages behind him. That left the knife. The Wildsteer was the only weapon he could quickly bring to a fight.
Reversing his grip on the blade, Rainer seemed to coil into himself like a snake waiting for prey. His eyes hardened and he prepared himself to make a kill. A small grin of satisfaction crept across his mouth.
Abruptly, the man stopped 20 metres away. Pausing for a moment, he raised his hands high in the air and held out three fingers on the left hand and two on the right. From his right hand hung the lead for the first horse and it pulled against it. A soft curse in Pashto floated across the still air and reached Rainer.
Rainer waited a second longer to scan the terrain beyond for any movement, then rose from his hide and cleared his throat. The man jumped in surprise and the horses shuffled their hooves nervously behind him. Pulling himself up to his full height and squaring his shoulders to intimidate the man, Rainer moved quietly out on to the road and walked across to where the man stood. Rainer constantly scanned from side to side for any signs of an ambush. As he moved, he slid the knife back into its sheath, but kept its locking strap freed.
‘Salaam Alaikum,’ said Rainer, pulling away the binoculars and blinking his own night vision into place. Rainer’s accent was heavy with his French birth and the words were mashed and slow. He hated speaking Pashto and had never been able to master it. He had other languages to communicate with.
Frowning in the darkness, the man tilted his head to one side, unsure of what he was being asked.
‘Salaam Alaikum,’ repeated Rainer opening his body ready to attack the man. He moved his right hand down on to the hilt of the knife. This person may not be his contact.
A soft chuckle drifted across from the man.
‘English is okay if you like, my friend. You are very hard to understand,’ said the man.
‘English it is. I speak other languages if you are more comfortable,’ offered Rainer, carefully watching for any reaction which would give this man away as someone other than who he was expecting.
‘My friend, English is the only other I can speak if you do not have Pashto.’
‘English then. Who are you?’ said Rainer. His tone was hard and offered no friendship at their meeting.
‘I am Abdul Anwar. I will be your translator and companion until your task is finished. I am to escort you to Abd al-Malik,’ said the man, licking his lips and peering uncertainly at Rainer’s dim figure.
‘I need to load my equipment. How long will the journey take?’ enquired Rainer. The man had made the correct pass sign and provided the correct name – Anwar was his contact and escort.
‘One and one-half days if we do not sleep,’ replied Anwar.
‘Then we do not sleep,’ commanded Rainer. ‘Do you have anything for me?’
‘Yes, but I could not get all you asked for. I have the best I could find. I will get it for you,’ replied Anwar walking to the last donkey in the train.
Rainer walked back behind the pile of rocks he had been waiting in and began pulling bags of equipment out and onto the road. A long narrow bundle was the last one he pulled clear; he placed it carefully on top of the pile.
‘You have a lot of equipment, my friend,’ pointed out Anwar as he closed the flap on a saddle bag and returned to face Rainer.
‘Your chieftain is paying for a specialist, Anwar, not a common mercenary.’
‘Yes. Here,’ replied Anwar, eyeing the bundles. He handed Rainer a worn chest rig full of magazines, a Russian Makarov 9-millimetre pistol in a holster and a stubby AKS-74U rifle, which gleamed in the dark.
‘I did not ask for any of this Russian ordure,’ said Rainer, almost spitting out the words and using the French word for garbage or shit. ‘I asked for German weapons. I only use the very best to defend myself. You had my list. You had my requirements.’
Angrily, Rainer removed his anti-IR cloak and stuffed it into the nearest bag. He dropped the chest rig over his body and attached the pistol to his belt. Pulling the pistol free he racked back the slide, feeling the workings as best he could in the darkness, slapped in a magazine and dropped it back into its holster. Turning the AKS-74U over in his hands, Rainer shook his head, pulled back the cocking handle and listened to its movement. At least it had been oiled and cleaned in recent history. He pulled free a magazine from his rig, clicked it home and slung the rifle over his right shoulder.
‘I know, my friend, but I could not get those. I can get these. It is all I have for you,’ replied Anwar nervously. He had been told to be wary of this man who came with many talents. Rainer’s reputation was for violence and aggression, and he thought nothing of killing. He made a good mercenary for the cause. Abd al-Malik had paid a high price for Rainer to undertake the mission assigned to him.
‘Help me load the equipment,’ replied an annoyed Rainer. He moved past Anwar with two bags and hitched them over the last donkey’s back.
‘You have rifles?’
‘Two. That rifle case has my HK MSG Ninety, and the long bundle is my primary rifle,’ answered Rainer absently, vaguely waving his hand at the bags. Everyone was always interested in his rifles. They were unique.
‘The big one is for the job?’
‘Yes. And the MSG Ninety, if things get too close.’
‘I have organised protection for you also. Four men will be your bodyguards.’
‘Are they any good?’ probed Rainer. He always worked alone, but often an employer would supply area protection while he conducted his work.
‘They are the sons of men who fought the Russians. They are good and have seen many battles. Good men.’
‘We will see.’
‘All is arranged as Abd al-Malik has planned. It will be good. Allah will guide us to victory.’
‘I’m sure he will,’ responded Rainer, concentrating on securing his baggage. He was not a religious man.
‘You do not believe?’ asked Anwar pointedly. He followed his faith as he needed to and as it suited the situation.
‘I do not judge, Anwar. I am happy if you believe,’ countered Rainer.
‘Very well, my friend. I will believe for us both.’
‘If you wish.’
After loading the last of the bags and strapping the long bundle to the side of the first donkey, Rainer slid on the binoculars and scanned the night sky above th em.
‘Nothing to fear. We have checked. Our Pakistani friends assure us no-one is watching this part of the border until tomorrow night. We are safe,’ said Anwar, following Rainer’s gaze as he tracked the sky.
‘Someone is always watching, Anwar, and I am never safe,’ responded Rainer, continuing his scan. Satisfied, he looked around and made to mount the first horse.
‘You cannot travel dressed like that, even in the dark. Please, put these on,’ said Anwar, staring at the black shape of Rainer’s French Army T4 Serie 2 arid combat fatigues.
Rainer turned around and accepted the Afghani clothes Anwar handed to him. He slipped out of his chest rig and pulled the standard Afghani perahan tunban over the distinctive camouflage he wore. The scuffed Haix Airpower P9 boots he wore looked out of place. He wrinkled his nose at the strong stink of the clothes as he fitted the pashteen hat to his head.
Anwar chuckled. ‘They are not washed.’
Ignoring him, Rainer mounted the horse, settled himself, wheeled around and started down the road into Afghanistan.
Shaking his head in the dark, ensuring Rainer could not see him, Anwar mounted his horse and pulled the donkeys along behind him. Anwar could feel that his time with Rainer was going to be strained at best.
Damien Hunter
Tarin Kowt (TK)
Uruzgan Province
Afghanistan
Australian Special Operations Command
Hot water filled Damien Hunter’s ears, muffling the thunder of helicopters as the machines flew low over the building heading for the landing pad. The roof of the accommodation block shook and rattled as they passed over through the early evening air. The Australian base of operations at Tarin Kowt was a continuous and unrelenting hub of activity and noise. There was never a time when silence settled over the thousands of people who lived, worked and fought in this slice of Afghanistan. Part of the International Security Assistance Force (ISAF), the Australian special forces teams conducted operations in the surrounding mountains against the Taliban and foreign insurgents drawn to the cause.
Damien opened his eyes under the curtain of water streaming over his face and sighed. His heart felt heavy in his chest and his shoulders sagged.
‘What am I doing here?’ he muttered as a deep tiredness gnawed at his body and jaded pain flashed through his mind. Too many missions, too many near misses, too many friends lost.
Damien struggled to remember a time when he used to feel relaxed and at ease. It was a blurred memory he could not quite grasp. There was a time, and he was sure there had been, when he was happy every hour of the day, enjoying life and everything it had to give. He was not sure when it had all changed. Maybe who he was now had snuck up and taken over when he was not looking.
Damien was a shell of the man he had been 20 years earlier. When he had enlisted in the Royal Australian Air Force as an eager and bulletproof airfield defence guard, the world had opened for him and life became an adventure. The scars covering his body and the pain in his joints reminded him that he was no longer that fresh faced 18-year-old. He was now rushing towards 40 and life was grinding his body down. It was only his mind’s ferocious grip and dominance over his body that kept him going.
The military had hacked, honed and grown his natural aggression and intelligence. Driven by a constant need to be the best and to push his boundaries, Damien quickly grew bored with the normal life of an airfield defence guard. He volunteered to join 4 Squadron, Royal Australian Air Force. As he progressed through the pipeline, Damien found his niche in life and entered the dangerous world of a Combat Controller. Seeking more excitement, he qualified as a Joint Terminal Attack Controller (JTAC). JTAC qualified combat controllers were the first special forces the Royal Australian Air Force had raised since World War II. As a combat controller he constantly thirsted for more action, more adrenaline, quickly establishing a reputation for taking on any mission with any level of risk. He angled to be part of all Special Air Service and Commando missions and took on work with other governments, expanding his skills and experience, becoming a door kicker. Damien embraced the battlefield experience and spent as little time back in Australia as he could. He was in the dreamlike world of foreign soil operations, and he was addicted.
Six years earlier his life had changed. The Air Force had decided to rotate him off operations and into training. Damien felt his world start to collapse. He was no trainer. He was a door-kicking combat controller. He needed to be in combat, saving lives and killing the enemy with the weight of air and fire support assigned to him.
Damien cast around his network for a new opportunity, chasing the heroin high of combat. Word drifted out that he was available, and he was approached by the Taipan Organisation, a shadow company contracted to undertake missions outside of the Australian Government’s mainstream operations in Afghanistan. Taipan took contracts from any entity that paid the fee. Formed to undertake clandestine operations in the Congo in the 1960s, Taipan had its roots in Australia and South Africa, but took operators from all nations to provide its unique services.
Damien had signed on immediately when the offer came and entered the world of a Taipan operator. He did the 12 months intensive training to iron out any deficiencies, then emerged on the other side of what Taipan termed ‘going dark’ as a highly trained and skilled operator. Now fluent in languages and skills beyond anything the Royal Australian Air Force had provided him, Damien had become a polished killing machine.
He was given the job of commanding a Taipan crew, assembled a small team of men known as Taipan One Six and landed in Tarin Kowt with Special Operations Command. He was well known among the other operators and aviators in SOCOMD at TK for his callsign, ‘Chainsaw’. That was something Damien refused to give up when he had transitioned to be a contractor. Chainsaw was part of his personality.
Damien breathed deeply, letting the water wash away the tension bunching the thick muscles of his body. He sighed again, hoping to expel the feeling of doom and disaster which plagued his thoughts. He willed the water to scrub his short hair and the stubble on his face clean of all the pain. Nothing seemed to work. Nothing ever seemed to dull the gnawing emptiness and feeling of distant disconnection which rotted his soul.
Stay on mission, he thought. He commenced his mantra to prepare himself for the mental and physical assault of the coming operation. The ritual had kept him focused and functioning for many years. Four deep breaths and find the spinning ball in his mind. Focus on turning it faster and faster until his mind cleared and he came online. The crushing anxiety which constricted his mind was safely tucked away for the time being.
A fist slammed against the stall door, jolting Damien from his thoughts.
‘Yep?’ answered Damien, moving his head out from under the water and staring defensively at the cubicle door. His left hand closed over the Gerber folding knife he had clipped onto his towel. Damien never went anywhere without a weapon.
‘It’s Stayer. Hurry up, mate, we’re turning blades in fifty and doors in sixty. Final briefing is in five,’ said Paul ‘Stayer’ MacLean, a member of Damien’s three-man team. Stayer was the first man Damien had recruited to the unit. He had found Stayer wasting away and looking for action in 2 Commando. Stayer was due to rotate back to Australia and searching for reasons to stay in the country. He was a good fit for the missions they had to undertake. A solid and professional operator, Stayer was one of three men who Damien had come to rely on to keep him alive.
‘Okay, I’ll be there,’ sighed Damien, ducking his head back under the water.
He waited for the sound of Stayer’s boots to fade out of the ablution block, then turned off the water, paused a second and reached for his towel.
Reaper 39
General Atomics MQ-9 Reaper
The steady rumble of the Reaper’s Honeywell TPE331-10 turboprop was lost to the still, clear air as the drone orbited 30,000 feet above the jagged mountains surrounding the Chora Valley. Oblivious to the rapidly cooling air, Reaper 39’s sleek body sliced through a dying thermal, its heat lost as the sun dropped below the horizon. The Reaper rocked gently, its wings flexing as it passed through and out into still air. Impassive, its sensors scanned the valley floor and villages searching for any sign of movement outside of parameters.
