Ferris M. Returned Soldier E-Book

Ivan Furyk

• Herausgeber: Europa Edizioni
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

Michael Ferris, Mick to his mates. A Special Forces veteran of four tours in Afghanistan, the last one seeing him captured, tortured and declared clinically dead before a daring rescue. After twelve years of service, with no further deployments on the horizon, he leaves the army and begins a new career in the personal protection and security business. Most jobs are straightforward enough, however one that reaches him by a simple phone number passed on in his release from a city lockup, turns out deadly. Having mainly put his demons from his previous life to rest; he finds them once again, resurfacing in Australia. Apart from his life, innocent lives are also put in extreme danger. Together with long time friend Bobby and his SF brothers they go to war, again.
 

Leseprobe

Ivan Furyk

Ferris M. Returned Soldier

Not all wars are fought in Afghanistan

© 2023 Europe Books| London www.europebooks.co.uk | [email protected]

ISBN 9791220138550

First edition: June 2023

Ferris M.

Returned Soldier

Not all wars are fought in Afghanistan

To my quiet and loved father, Mychaijlo, Michael.

Mick to his mates.

Sadly passed away in 1988, gone but not forgotten.

A huge shout out to Marilyn Ford whose diligence in proof reading, formatting and encouragement were invaluable in completing this book.

Her son Cameron Ford, an accomplished screen writer, film editor and director was generous with his praise and suggested some storyline changes which I believe worked extremely well.

Massive thanks to the efforts from the professional and efficient personnel at Europe Books for the seamless transition of manuscript to completed novel.

Lastly my children, in particular my eldest daughter Amie and her husband James who after an impromptu recital by me over a glass of wine spurred me on to begin the project in earnest.

It’s not whether you win or lose.

It’s that you win eventually.

Afghanistan August 2009

Chapter 1

I was escorting our new platoon lieutenant to the briefing room situated to the rear of company headquarters. The sand-coloured, lightweight pre-fab building was located virtually in the centre of the Australian forces main barracks. Our regular lieutenant had crushed his ankle under a Bushmaster armoured vehicle on a previous tactical mission. It would be up to me to provide some good work practices for our new platoon commander on his first mission. At least that was the brief they force-fed me.

The entire compound was set up on the outskirts of the capital city of Uruzgan province, Tarin Kowt. The massive complex was now a multi-national staging post for coalition forces engaged in their continuous efforts to bring the radical Muslim extremists, the Taliban, under control. The fundamental Muslim extremists had proved to be a formidable enemy, much like their Mujahideen brethren had proved when fighting the Communist Russian invaders from 1979 to early 1989. A war that didn’t end well for the Russian insurgents. They realised after almost ten years that the Afghans with a history steeped with invaders ranging from Alexander the Great to neighbouring Asian countries, the rugged locals were no pushovers.

I was a sergeant in the newly renamed 2 RAR, a special-forces commando regiment that only a couple of months ago had been known as 4 RAR. Just a number change, no big deal. My young Lieutenant, Eric Forbes, a graduate of the Duntroon military academy was smart, nervous, and looked as though he rightly needed experienced handlers.

Our company CO, (commanding officer) had purposefully put together just such a group. My three senior corporals were all veterans of at least 3 previous tours, one of them had been a sergeant before losing one of his hooks, temporarily demoted to two hook purgatory, another only weeks away from receiving his third hook, or stripe if you prefer. It was reported to be ‘in the mail.’ At this stage the only information on the mission was that I would lead the crucial infiltration, and tail end the exfil. Crucial components of any mission. Our soon to be sergeant, corporal Beck (Bobby) would shadow young Eric, corporal Phil Needham would take the tail end during our infiltration, while former sergeant Hook, now corporal Hook would cover my back. Not for the first time.

As we made our way along the 20 metre corridor extending the length of the pre-fab construction, I noticed our CO in the communications room which butted up against the briefing room. Ever aware, he acknowledged me with a slight nod of his head, in between answering whoever was on the other end of his headsets.

Acting major, captain William Bartel; Billy, when not in formal mode was also a veteran of 3 previous tours, the first of which we shared together.

As my young charge and I entered the modest 6 x 6 metre briefing room the usual anxious chatter subsided temporarily before it ramped up again, after all it was only me and a ‘newbie.’ There was seating for up to 40, we would only need 25 places, two seats had been reserved, front and centre. We took them.

With merely 25 in our platoon, a relatively skeletal number, it meant an emphasis would be on stealth. The contingent not large enough for full on confrontation, capable enough for sure, but chosen for a clandestine infil and exfil.

A snatch and grab ideally.

Captain Bartel entered, the only one to rise was young Eric, he was waved down by our acting CO.

The mission was outlined in a no fuss straightforward manner; a few of the soldiers were taking notes, all listening intently. A high value target, HVT, Nasim Nazir, was fast tracking a reputation as a brutal, cruel Taliban enforcer, major drug dealer and hereditary smuggler. He was predominant in what had now evolved into a 2 billion dollar a year drug empire.

The opium sourced from the poppy plants; most of which was converted to either heroin or morphine, had become one of the nations’ biggest exports. Virtually all of the profits were being used towards funding the well-organised Taliban war effort. Nasim’s efforts were of particular concern to both the Aussie and US coalition forces. His brutal treatment of his growers and dealers was more often than not left with falsified evidence of coalition atrocities. Word had spread and not for the first time a mission was put in place, he needed to be captured. Or killed.

Our mission was to be a joint effort; reliable intel had prioritised an operation to take maximum advantage of resources in two provinces.

Both the US and Aussies fed up with denying media allegations of improprieties had joined forces to put an end to the elusive HVT.

Our contingent was to co-ordinate with a U.S. Ranger platoon being dispatched from the west in the neighbouring Helmund province; we were to close in from the east here in Uruzgan province. Our HVT, we were reliably informed, was to be found in a small hamlet nestled within a lush poppy-growing valley located between the two provinces.

Once the mission had been summarily discussed; then dissected by all present, including the newest privates, here we were all equal, all in the same gunsight, we proceeded to draw the necessary provisions for what was expected to be a 10 day mission. We would need loads of water, at least 40 kilograms worth, ration packs by comparison were relatively light, ammunition would include 100 extra rounds, now totalling over 300. Grenades and other ordnance were more or less standard, each individual would have their own preferences. Packs would start off weighing in excess of 80 kilos. The only upside would be most of the weight would be reduced, once we drank the water.

The first part of the mission began with an insertion by Chinook 6 clicks (a click is 1,000 metres) east of a predetermined lay-up position, tactically chosen to be our base of operations for the mission. Our drop off was successful with no sign of enemy in the area. The sight of the helo leaving without an RPG vapour trail following its lift-off signalled we were off to a good start. Our platoon split into three sections and immediately adopted full on covert procedures. Wary of every sound and slightest movement visible through our NVG’s. Progress being dictated by my section was slow and deliberate. This wasn’t a race.

From the LZ it was imperative to cover the next 6 clicks in total silence and not alert any Afghans of our presence. Progress would be slow. My section would precede our other two by about 50 metres. We would not engage any Taliban if it was avoidable. We had a bigger target to apprehend, or to dispose of.

Night vision goggles gave me a headache but were essential kit, specifically since the mission had been fast tracked to take advantage of a zero moon window.

After 5 tense hours we reached our scheduled lay-up position at 0235 hrs. That gave us 3 hrs to settle in before sunrise. Our primary task now was to camouflage our new home away from home, to blend in with the surrounds and become invisible. Most of the time it involved digging your way deeper into mother earth and covering up with local coloured rocks trees and bushes. The terrain here was a mix of granite-like concrete and easily accessed soft earth. A typical example of having to take the good with the bad.

Our lay-up position was a small mountain 400 metres from our targeted hamlet. Eight small two-roomed mudbrick dwellings spread below, a community well located to the northern quarter, the furthest point away from our OP. Only one vintage vehicle was visible, a well-used open tray truck with most of the railings on one side having fallen away. The hamlet was serenely located in a lush valley that was bursting with poppy plants in full bloom. They resembled a red carpet, ready for a grand entrance of huge proportions. The poppy fields were in the final days of bloom before needing to be harvested; from here they would be forwarded to one of the dozens of refining factories, which had sprung up in the many villages sharing the lush plateaus and valleys. The burgeoning industry had created a whole new skill set for the former crop farmers and goat herders. From there the red flora would be refined into opium, most of which would be transformed again into either heroin or morphine. Apart from its diversity there was another advantage the highly sought after plant boasted. In its refined state of opium, it was ideal for storage, didn’t deteriorate, wasn’t unduly affected by extreme temperatures and rodents such as mice and rats didn’t warm to it.

Paramount in our preparation was to keep our position as seemingly undisturbed as possible. It was a fair call the locals who had been staring at the mountain for years on end would notice a brand new hump all of a sudden appearing in their morning vista over breakfast.

So far so good, the platoon was doing ok, we were first in, Eric setting up HQ would be central with Phil Needham and his section monitoring our left flank, and rear, as we all would.

Our clandestine nighttime activities in settling in, we believe were successful. Forward scouts sent out at early light to view our hides in a critical light gave us the thumbs up before returning to join in the tedious, slow, debilitating hours of surveillance. With 8 men per section our shifts would be 2 hours on 4 hours off, being the right flank, our area of operations would be, right flank, front and rear. To the rear side of the mountain, we had all set secondary hides. One to escape the crowded surveillance hides. Two, to try and rest up as best as possible.       

All movements in this environment are on your belly and extra slow. The mentality needs to be someone could always inadvertently spot movement. Think ice glacier.

By day four your body is aching from a lack of movement. Your metabolism has slowed, your ration packs providing little if anything to look forward to. Any bowel movements had to be collected and stowed to take away.

We were not to leave any trace of our presence.

The village specialised in poppy growth and harvesting, it meant the chances of being spotted by a goat herder or shepherd moving his flock was unlikely. A huge tick.

Our US counterparts were deployed on a much flatter plateau, whereas we could spread approximately 100 metres apart with our three sections, they had to spread much wider due to lack of ideal cover.

Communications between the two forces was kept to a minimum, restricted to one short update per day, it was a burst transmission which effectively lasted a mere few seconds before being registered then decoded. It was imperative not to underestimate the capabilities of our target, he had managed to avoid three previous attempts at being captured or dealt with.

Our central command section had the luxury of a specialist radio operator seconded from the Signals Corps. Lance corporal Williams was a technical expert and a handy asset in the clinches.

So far, our young Lieutenant was holding up quite well, like most of us he was impatient for a result. But otherwise doing ok.

By day five our U.S. counterparts agreed that positive ID had not been able to be confirmed. Our surveillance had resulted mainly in the same innocent faces tending crops and going about daily chores. No signs of known Taliban identities.

At dusk on day five we spotted three four by four’s entering the village and seven previously unseen Afghan villagers rushed into the vehicles and sped off, dissecting the Ranger’s positions and heading northwest into the Helmund province. Our centre section confirmed one of the squerters had appeared to be our HVT.

Damn it, it was as though the air had been sucked out of every centimetre of our bodies. We could only assume that one of the groups had been compromised early in the operation and had forced our target to stay hidden from prying eyes. Either that, or there was a leak in the system. Tally had simply waited us out and messed with us, before tiring of the game and rubbing our noses in it.

Not all ops run to plan. Tough luck - we needed to regroup and exfil with all caution and due care, our presence no doubt known. It wasn’t over by a long shot.

Our Exfil was to take the form of last in, first out, meaning my section would be tail end Charlie as outlined and take up the rear. We maintained our stealth signature and moved out at 0330 hrs. Having spent the best part of six days crawling around like comatosed lizards, it took a few clicks to work out the soreness. Our sections were spread roughly 100 metres apart. Not ideal, but in these gentle valleys and smallish mountains it was better than all our eggs in one basket.

In an ideal set up 70-80 metres would have provided better support for each section. Someone had his pedal to the metal. At first it didn’t concern me due to the winding open valleys and goat tracks we were using, eventually I would need the front-runners to slow down and bring the gaps in to a more respectable distance.

By daylight we were halfway to our pickup point, again it was to be by helo, this time ten clicks from our layup point, changed in case our previous drop off point had been compromised.

With the onset of daylight our Eric, even though sandwiched between the two sections was trying to ramp up the pace, Phil in the lead wouldn’t normally be rushed, however he didn’t need 17 soldiers in one cluster fuck. So, he ramped it up as safely as possible.

Corporal Beck advised the officer to drop back, to keep in sight of all sections where the terrain allowed. Roughly 80 metres would be safe and functional.

Around 0730 hrs, my section was entering yet another open valley with excellent cover for any would-be adversary either side. The temperature by now had climbed to 35 degrees. Our comms consisted of reports from the two sections preceding us advising us of possible ambush points. As wary as we were, there wasn’t much we could do about it. We remained cautious and concerned about our immediate area as well as making certain we weren’t being followed. Part of the deal with the tail end was to cover your rear.

We had now dropped to around 350 metres behind our lead sections. The situation was becoming indefensible.

I had taken up a position second from the rear. Our newbie was forcing quite the pace.

Corporal Hook, ‘Hookey’ was in the middle of my section and calling most of the shots. Hookey a veteran of three tours was reliable and experienced enough to read the terrain while looking after our section and doing his best not to lose track of the rest of the platoon. Dave Rourke was our last man in the section. By my dropping back to assist with rear protection instead of being spaced roughly 9 metres apart, we found ourselves about 25 metres from the main group. Conscious of having too large a gap I told Rourkey that we had to shorten that distance, we were making ourselves out to be soft targets.

Prophetic call.

It was then that all hell broke loose. There was minimal cover in the base of the valley, it didn’t stop us from diving to ground and crawling to the biggest rocks or hollows we could find. All around our area the ground was being pock marked with rounds kicking up dust and fragments of rock. It was as though it was hailing golf ball size missiles, only difference being it was dry. This was a serious amount of firepower.

My brain was already calculating possible numbers, by the consistency and number of range balls landing all over our area, I would estimate we were being fucked over by around fifty insurgents. They weren’t being frugal with their ammo either. From my tiny rock and hollow, which I had been scraping and clawing at, I could see my section were all doing likewise. Chatter on comms was going ballistic.

I interceded. “Dig deeper guys. Andy, get onto the other sections see if you can recall them.” I raised my M4 carbine above my head and blindly fired off a few short bursts up the hill to return fire. More of a defiant gesture than an effective one.

Fortunately, so far none of us had taken any hits. Hookey in relatively good cover had his tactical mirror extended and began directing fire up the hill. Most of our return fire was being done from the safety of what little cover we had and was a token blind firing exercise, as I had done. Good. I didn’t need any heroes sticking their heads out for a better look or shot. The longer this shit fight went, the chances a visual on targets was more likely to occur.

More chatter on comms. Rounds were still raining in. The initial barrage had somehow intensified. My section was scraping its way into Mother Earths Bosom. Knives, nails, fingers and tactical gloves all bearing the damage, blood and skin being exposed and clamming up our gloves.

‘Boom’ followed immediately by another explosion; farrrck RPG’s, two at once. These pricks had good ordnance. The RPG’s were landing well short. Fortunately, they hadn’t quite worked out the drop in the hillside. More rockets, one every thirty odd seconds, each one gradually zeroing in ever closer. A couple of my guys were now returning steady fire, having dug in and sighted some targets. The sound of repeated gunfire and rockets was deafening.

I was shouting into my comms unit in an attempt to be heard above the constant barrage of incoming rounds and rockets. “Any news from our lead sections?”

Hookey. “Boss. They’re getting sporadic fire and

are pinned down about half a click around the next bend.”

Damn it, too far for any immediate help, and clearly needing to deal with their own concerns, this was a well thought out and executed ambush, not the usual haphazard small group of disgruntled believers taking the odd shot at a smorgasbord of infidels to choose from.

“Great! See if you can get air support.” Our aim would be to call in some US Apaches to shred the hillside. Deadly attack helicopters able to pour out hundreds of high calibre 30 mm rounds as well as unleashing the Longbow Hellfire air-to-surface missiles.

“On it boss!”

A round chipped off some rock and bit into my cheek, only this was from my six. I checked my rear, spotting 6 Tallies boldly racing down the slope of the hill to our rear. Letting off sporadic fire, not particularly steadying with their aim. My section was copping it big time. The Tallies were working this well. I got into our comms and tasked Griffo and Andy, both excellent riflemen, to return fire to our six.

Received two nods and a pair of Wilcos and they were on it. Within a few minutes, fire from our six immediately dropped off. They had collected all of them, we would be wary of another detail being sent to our rear replacing the one we had just dealt with. I assumed the Tallies had been thirsting for blood and had become impatient, thereby exposing themselves. A typical reaction from novice soldiers, they would have seen our position as helpless, assumed it would be like shooting fish in a barrel, (they weren’t far off the mark) and became vulnerable in their race to finish us off. Hookey called a strike on a location with our Carl Gustav rocket launcher. The RPG’s were silenced. Our machine gun duo had found better cover and were laying down heavy retaliatory fire.

Dave on my left, about eight metres away. “Got numbers coming in on our left boss.”

As far as I could tell the main force was 120 metres above us spread over the same distance, which covered our spread. Our six or rear if you like was still silent.

I was thinking we were beginning to look ok, though our left flank was now a concern; overall our section had managed reasonable cover and was returning significant fire.

A shout out from Rourkey. He’d taken a round in his left bicep. He was trying to get his M4 realigned but was struggling. There was a brief respite of incoming rounds. Either the Tallies were being more selective with their fire or their fingers were sore. Perhaps they were finally running low on ammo. Call it wishful thinking, at its worst it was a glass-half-full take on the situation. What can I say, I’m an optimist.

To Rourkey’s left about eight Tallies were using what cover was available and edging ever closer. Showing greater caution than the previous detail on our rear.

It’s a learning curve all soldiers need to take in. Or die. About 70 metres away now.

I worked my way out of my pack. I had been ok with it on covering my back; however now with simply my webbing I was crawling, slowly making my way to Rourkey.

He told me to fuck off.

Rourkey trying to discourage my intention to provide aid. “Pup, I’m good.” A nickname which came about early in my infantry career and had stuck. I’d been hoping for one like ‘wolf’ or ‘wheels’ but copped Pup instead.

“Yeah, right ya dumbfuck.”

Comms. Hookey. “What the fuck are you doing Pup.”

“I’m looking for some shade. Keep trying air. Any word from our sections?”

“Will do on air, no word yet from one and three sections.”

“Keep it going Hookey.”                   

Our lefties had spotted my move and were laying down a fair bit of heat. Some of which was whistling past my ears and exploding all around me. I couldn’t expect this streak to last before I would cop a hit. I estimated I still had 15 rounds remaining in my magazine, I loosed off five three round bursts and managed to reduce their numbers by three. Immediately reloaded.

My dispatching of three of the lefties kept their heads down long enough for me to get up to Rourkey. I grabbed his medics pouch from the side of his rucksack, which he’d discarded and was using to cover his lower extremities. I rolled him over and once again laid down discouraging fire to our advancing predators. He had drawn his sidearm and was firing off the occasional round at our newfound fans. They were less enthusiastic now and careful not to present themselves as targets. I had emptied a fresh 30 round magazine in their direction, no joy this time. Reloaded. Our lefties were temporarily silenced, I took the opportunity to unravel a field dressing to wrap around Rourkey’s arm, an attempt to stop the bleeding, he’d refused the morphine syringe I offered. Preferring to stay fully lucid.

‘Kaboom.’ They were back being up and about. Frag grenades. One, then another, with the wound exposed I covered it with my chest. Fuck they had it all. I threw a couple of my own, not wanting to be outdone or blown up for that matter. I was conserving my grenades in expectation of a full on assault from our antagonists from above. A lot needed to go right for my small section to survive the next 30 odd minutes. Shit was getting real. Damn bombs going off everywhere. I could vaguely hear chatter on the comms, but my ears were ringing and felt as though they were a couple of metres under water. A break in the bombing. I proceeded to apply the bandage. No exit wound.

Must’ve caught the bone. Had to hurt like fuck. Ears clearing. “Pup, Pup, boss. You ok?

Me. “All good, any news?”

“Apaches thirty-five minutes away. Section one trying to establish a flanking manoeuvre on our Tallies. Section 3 almost rid of their opposition.” Hookey, keeping us up-to-date.

“Stay with it, don’t go wasting your ammo, we’ve gotta last a minimum thirty-five minutes.”

My time frame wasn’t too far out. Often Tally with such big numbers would launch assaults after a few hundred rounds, roughly half an hour. Eager to wipe out a much smaller force, our aim would be to reserve as much ordnance as possible to keep them at bay, particularly when they would start their inevitable charge.

A lot of shit had to go right for our section to survive the next half hour or so. Tally was well positioned, seemed loaded up with ammo and had settled into outflanking manoeuvres. We would be ok provided we conserved our ammo and didn’t make ourselves soft targets. Imperative the air support was able to get here in the time frame available. The rest of our sections had their own concerns. This was a formidable force spread over our platoon’s dispersed

600 odd metres.       

“Roger that boss.” That Hookey, so formal in the clinches.

Another grenade… Followed immediately with

smoke grenades to our right, at least four of them. The valley was quickly disappearing in a foggy quagmire. ‘Boom’ another grenade, closer this time. My ears were ringing, big-time. I covered Rourkey.

* * * * *

I came to later in the back of a Taliban troop carrier. Rourkey was on my right. His wrists plasticuffed behind his back, as were mine.

I asked Rourkey. “What the fuck happened, how long have I been out? Did our guys get out?” My head was foggy, aching; no doubt I was concussed. I desperately tried to shake it off and focus.

Rourkey. “A great big mother fucker of a rock landed on your neck, clean bowled you out. Another chunk of rock chopped onto my leg just above the kneecap. It’s stuffed. I’d guess that was a couple of hours ago. Once we’d stopped firing the Tallies moved in, belted you and me again for good measure and dragged us around the side of the hill a couple of hundred metres and loaded us onto this collectors’ item. There were close to forty of the fuckers behind that hill when they pulled out. Last I heard our guys were still returning fire. My guess is Tally got what they were after and ex-filled. We must’ve been about seven clicks away when they pulled into a covered enclosure and waited ‘til the Apache’s flattened the hilltop they used to occupy. I think we’re heading west.”

We were sharing the troop carrier with six Tallies, mainly young, ranging from eighteen to late twenties. Difficult to tell with some of the older ones. We got yelled at and belted with the butts of their AK 47s. I guess they wanted us to stop the chatter. Perhaps they were self-conscious.

About half-an-hour later they pulled over. We were ordered to get out, moved, make that dragged and kicked, thirty metres from the vehicle, positioned in the sun and left there while they followed their prayer rituals and helped themselves to a feed and some water.

I had the headache to beat all headaches. Rourkey was in need of morphine and medical attention.

A Tally came over and kicked us both. Whatever.

Rourkey. “Listen Pup I’m fucked, next time that turd comes over I’ll grab him, you take off for that tree line and keep going.”

I looked at him. This was a soldier I had had cause

to beat the crap out of two tours ago. He’d been on speed while on a mission. At the time I was a Corporal, he was fresh out of selection and a year into his Commando stint. He didn’t lag me in. He always had the talent, just needed to stick with the simple stuff. Look after your mates, don’t let them down, I’d noticed he’d been wired and super frisky out in the field. As I said, I’d had a quiet word to him and ever since he had become an exemplary digger.

I quickly replied. “Get fucked dumbarse. As if. Besides not ‘til you tell me where your little red book is stashed.”

I was referring to his address and phone book with all of his girl-friends contacts. Bastard attracted them like flies to honey. He laughed, his face grimacing in pain. He was in a world of hurt.

Some cadet Tally, couldn’t have been more than sixteen or so, was strutting and dishing out orders.

I asked Rourkey. “Who the fuck is Junior.”

“He’s been on it since the valley, all the other turds are shit scared of him.”

Junior headed our way, mouthed off. Stuffed if I knew what he was on about. Belted both of us with his AK 47. Little fuck hit like a sheila. Strutted off.

I couldn’t help myself. “Junior hits like a girl

Rourkey. It’s embarrassing. Should we lodge a complaint?”

“Definitely Pup. I feel cheap and dirty.”

“Maybe he’s just getting warmed up.”

“Ahh well. Plenty of time to find out.”

Shortly after Junior’s attempt at administering pain we were loaded back into the troop carrier and continued on a westerly course. Rourkey was still in a world of pain. Every time they moved or manhandled him, he was close to passing out. Buggar all I could do about it.