Whiskey Lima Golf, page 1
WHISKEY LIMA GOLF
DARIN DANCE
E koekoe te tūi,
E ketekete te kākā,
E kūkū te kererū.
The Tūī chatters,
The parrot gabbles,
The wood pigeon coos.
It takes all kinds of people
For all those people with dreams…
Go get them!
Contents
Chapter 1 – The Village
Chapter 2 – Reality Sets In
Chapter 3 – Homecoming
Chapter 4 – One Step Forward…
Chapter 5 – Cosmopolitan Caffeine
Chapter 6 – The Veteran Returns
Chapter 7 – Concourse Disputes
Chapter 8 – New Toys
Chapter 9 – Given Notice
Chapter 10 – New Friends
Chapter 11 – The French Connection
Chapter 12 – Mediterranean Tagine
Chapter 13 – Observations and Preparations
Chapter 14 – Miramar Meetings
Chapter 15 – Party With Marty
Chapter 16 – Missing Persons
Chapter 17 – Portside Shenanigans
Characters
Glossary
Dictionaries
Acknowledgements
About the Author
This edition 1.0 published 2022 in association with Bach Doctor Press
Copyright by © Darin Dance2022
The moral rights of the author has been asserted
All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission of the copyright owner.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-0-473-64401-7
ISBN: 978-0-473-64402-4 POD
ISBN: 978-0-473-64403-1 Epub
ISBN: 978-0-473-64404-8 Kindle
Cover Design: Ted D Hughes
Photography: Michael Steven Harris Photography
Titles available in the White Rabbit Investigations series
(in reading order):
Whiskey Lima Golf
Chapter One - The Village
Afghanistan - Summer
BULLETS THUD RHYTHMICALLY into the building. Crumbling masonry falls onto his helmet and shoulders. Finally he sees his target creep into his telescopic sights, before dropping out of vision again.
Quickly refocusing, he sees the man in black robes at the door of a village hut. He is yelling at the people inside, stepping back, constantly on the move. Transferring his aim, Tom is momentarily frozen, staring in disbelief. The man in black raises his AK-74M and ruthlessly guns down the villagers as they emerge from the doorway. Then the man runs forward, ducking behind a low wall. “Shit,” is all Tom says.
“Frickin’ bastards,” Brett yells as he opens fire on the zone he is covering.
“Tango Delta, this is Whiskey Lima Golf, we need that air support now…” The familiar voice of Tom’s leader and best friend Devon, barks into the SINCGARS radio. “…Three…four…nine-a…” his voice is cut off abruptly by the sound of a mortar round exploding to his left. Next comes the whine of a close ricochet to his right, more incoming fire from the approaching black-clad enemy troops.
“They’re flanking us, eight x-ray’s at 10 o’clock.” Trevor calmly relays the information.
“Dammit, we need that air support NOW! Not in five minutes…” Devon demands, before calling to the team, “Hang in there boys, the Yanks are going to be late to the party. Again.”
“No surprise there,” Brett mutters to his right. Tom hears the distinctive click of a new round being loaded into his M203 grenade launcher.
Tom wipes the sweat from his forehead to prevent any disturbance for his shot. He refocuses on the man who has led the attack on the village, waiting for him to emerge from behind the stone wall.
The familiar rattle of Trevor’s FN Minimi light machinegun opens fire in short bursts to his left as his target finally breaks cover, standing to wave on the next assault at their defensive position.
Ignoring the chaotic sounds of battle surrounding him, he releases his breath slowly, feeling the coolness ruffle the hairs on his hand as he squeezes the trigger, and his world suddenly erupts into noise, flames and screaming…
***
When he regains consciousness, Tom almost wishes he hadn’t, as a wave of excruciating pain overwhelms him.
“Hang in there, Tom. It’s gonna hurt a bit ‘til this kicks in,” Devon yells as he slams a morphine auto jet into his arm and then proceeds to quickly and efficiently wrap emergency dressings over Tom’s leg and hip.
The piercing pain is agonising, a wave of torment almost causing Tom to black out again. Steeling himself, he spits out between his gritted teeth, “Geez-us man! What happened?”
“We got hit by a few mortar rounds before the Yanks arrived and levelled the village,” Devon shakes his head. “Medevac should be here soon, brother. At least we got some of the villagers out before the attack.”
Another wave of pain racks his body. Tom waits until it subsides then struggles to sit. “How bad..?”
“Hey, lie down!” Devon commands, “Brett and some of second stick are still down there clearing the village. There could be some more x-rays out there.”
“How bad..?”
“You’ll live brother. Ah, here’s the cavalry.”
The distinctive rapid whumph, whumph of a troop of UH-60 Blackhawk helicopters is heard getting closer. Devon’s radio squawked. He jabs a second morphine auto jet into Tom’s arm and pats him on the shoulder, smiling “Back soon brother. Try and relax.” He reaches for the radio, all business again. “Dustoff three ten, come in…”
Tom’s awareness drifts as the morphine starts its medicinal magic. He wonders how the pain knows to splinter off in so many different directions, chasing his thoughts, and blurring in his mind.
Time, motion and reality pass erratically under his drug-induced haze. Tom imagines mini whirlwinds of dust turn into towering genies, rising up and tussling amongst themselves, all created by the rotor wash of the Medevac UH-60 helicopter as it descends, the phantasms grudgingly dissolve into each other as the greyish green beast, with its bright red cross splashed on the side, lands.
Brown and khaki clad crew discharge from the beast’s belly straddling a stretcher between them, race towards him.
Devon and a flight medic lift him gently onto the stretcher, which glides gracefully into the helicopter. Devon’s floating voice follows him, “You take care of my brother… Tom, we will see you soon…”
Another jab in his arm, the flight medic fixes a line into his forearm. “Getting some plasma into you, dude. You’ve lost a bit of blood.”
The engine’s pitch turns into a whine as the beast lifts gracefully back into the sky.
Finally feeling safe and able to relax, Tom’s mind lets go and he falls gratefully into oblivion.
***
Afghanistan Bagram Airbase Hospital - Next Day
The light reflects off the cream-panelled walls, his friends awkwardly gather around his hospital bed.
“It’s boring as in here,” Tom grumbles, fiddling with the intravenous line connecting him to a bag of lifesaving plasma.
“What? With all these pretty nurses?” Devon gestures towards the hard working women in their blue scrubs.
“Yeah man, how many phone numbers have you scored?” Brett asks, eyeing up a blonde nurse tending to another soldier on the opposite side of the ward.
“Not to mention hot food. Trevor points out a half-eaten meal on a tray. “Bloody holiday camp this. Are you going to finish that? No? Good, I’ll take it off your hands, now when are you coming back? I can’t be doing with breaking in another recruit.”
“I dunno Trev, they aren’t telling me much.” His frustration is clearly evident in his voice.
“George will get some answers brother. He can’t be far away, ‘cause he told us to meet him here,” Devon reassures the team. “So how’s the leg and the pain?”
“Well, I was told I was in surgery for five hours while they stitched me back together yesterday and they keep me topped up with local anaesthetic so I can’t feel much apart from a dull ache. But enough about me. You haven’t told me, what happened back at the village? I mean where did all those x-rays come from? There was nothing about a small Army in Kendrick’s briefing.”
“Especially bloody mortars,” Brett fumes, his hand automatically rubbing the fresh stitches in his face.
“What are you complaining about Brett? Those new beauty marks will improve your chances with the nurses,” Trevor playfully punches Brett in the arm.
“Ten-hut! Officer on deck!” a young Marine guard at the wards’ entrance bellows.
The American soldiers visiting their friends, quickly stand to attention, as a tall copper-haired well-groomed officer strides into the ward. “At ease for crying out loud. This is a hospital!” The Kiwi accented officer de
“SIR! YES SIR! SIR!” the confused young Marine bawls as he goes from attention to at ease and back to attention.
“Oh for Pete’s sake!” The officer cries, turns to the marine “Look Private, my men aren’t at attention, not because they aren’t showing respect, but because we are A in an active zone of conflict and B because we are in a hospital! Just chill out! You are not on a parade ground here Private! At bloody ease!”
The red-faced Marine, drops back into the at-ease stance, wishing that either his relief would arrive quickly or the earth would open up under his feet and swallow him.
Devon stands smiling and acknowledges the officer as he approaches Tom’s bed, “Captain Gillies, any news?”
“Gentlemen, Tom. Hell’s teeth, where do I start?” Captain Gillies asks himself, running a hand through his hair, “Okay, knock off the Captain shit Devon. Trevor, acquire a wheelchair as Tom needs to hear this as well but we need some privacy. There’s a doctor’s office down the hall that Kendrick has commandeered.”
“Sure thing George,” Trevor purposely walks off stalking his new prey.
“Okay Tom, about your injury,” George takes a seat beside Tom’s bed and starts to explain, “Mate, the good news is it’s not fatal and you get an early ticket home.”
“I somehow didn’t think I’d be playing any rugby soon,” Tom wisecracks, putting on a brave face. “So the bad news…”
“Well, according to these doctors, they managed to get most of the shrapnel out and prevent an amputation, but there’s a pile of nerve and tissue damage in your hip and leg.” George pauses and grimaces, “Well, there’s no easy way to say this, but they reckon that you won’t walk unaided again.”
His last statement leaves every one of the team speechless.
Trevor bursts back into the ward with a wheelchair, spinning the chair around as he pushes it next to Tom’s bed, “Come on, Sunshine, here’s your new wheels.” Then he notices the silence, “Who’s the party pooper?”
Everyone looks at the wheelchair as George’s words sink in. Tom realises that if he can’t walk, he’s out of the troop and probably the Army. He will lose his SAS family. His military career is over. Slowly shaking his head in disbelief. Unbidden tears start at the corner of his eyes. Hurriedly he wipes his eyes.
Seeing the tears, Trevor understands he is missing some important information. Ever the joker he lightens the mood by sniffing the air exaggeratedly. “Did someone drop one? Brett did you let one of your cabbage ones go? God, no wonder everyone is glassy-eyed! New Zealand’s own version of weapons of mass destruction! You should be only brought out when we’re right in the shit!”
Brett stands up protesting, “Not even ow!”
The team bursts out laughing, the tension eases.
“I’m definitely gonna miss that humour,” Tom replies wistfully.
“Come on troops, let’s get Tom in that contraption very gently and off to that debrief,” George commands.
***
“About goddamned time,” Kendrick mutters.
Two people occupy the doctor’s office as the team enter. General Adams is sitting behind the desk while Kendrick is perched on the edge.
“We had some transport issues, Kendrick,” George nods to the other officer, “Afternoon General.”
Trevor holds the door open as Devon squeezes the wheelchair through the door frame, Brett making sure the IV line keeps pace with the chair. Tom seeing the occupants, wonders, ‘Why is the General here?’
An immaculately dressed General Frank Adams rises from his chair, as Trevor closes the door, “Gentlemen, thank you for coming. I know it’s a bit of a squeeze but I’m sure you have been in tighter situations before,” he starts attempting some humour. His steely blue gaze rests on Tom, “Son, I trust you are getting the best attention here at the Craig Joint Theatre Hospital.”
“Thank you, Sir, there are others far worse off than me here.”
“Outstanding. Now straight to business. I don’t have much time before the next operation kicks off.” General Adams continues, “I’ve read your preliminary report Captain, but we want your soldier’s impressions of Operation Crimson Sky. Kendrick.”
“Thank you General, Crimson Sky was particularly successful,” Kendrick takes over, looking towards Devon with distaste, “Perhaps we will start with you Sergeant?”
Devon takes his sand-coloured beret off and runs a hand through his unruly hair, “Well, everything went smoothly until we got to the village and then TARFU. I mean the Helo insert went well. Our approach was undetected. We set up cover firing positions and then we approached the contacts’ rendezvous spot outside the village.”
“Yes, yes, that is all covered in the preliminary report, boy,” Kendrick rushes, “Was there anything unusual at all?”
Bristling at the use of the derogatory term, ‘boy’ his eyes narrow, but staying professional Devon continues, “Our contact seemed very nervous, more so than I expected. I mean we’ve done plenty of these ‘collections’ before, where we go in and arrest an insurgent leader and get him back to your mob for ah ‘tactical questioning’.” The sarcasm dripped off the last word, “and they have gone off without a hitch. The intel on the size of the suspects ‘protection’ squad was clearly incorrect.”
An angry Trevor pipes up, “You said six bodyguards Kendrick, six! Not one hundred and sixty with technicals and bloody mortars!”
The General breaks his silence, “Hmm, what happened there Kendrick?”
Clearly looking uncomfortable, Kendrick replies, “It appears that we had a slight translation error, the contractor assigned wasn’t as fluent in Dari as we were led to believe. His Farsi was first class but…”
“Oh for fu…, you used contractors to translate? What about the second translation?” George demands.
“Standard Agency best practise is to only use one translator these days, saves time and money,” Kendrick explains, “but we got caught out this time.”
“No YOU didn’t,” Devon interrupts cynically, “WE got caught out.”
The General steers the conversation, “Thank you, son for bringing the consequences home to us. Any other impressions any of you had?”
Devon replies, “Yes sir, these combatants were very well trained, their main group attempted fire suppression on our position while using a flanking manoeuvre.”
“And their mortar crew only launched two sighting rounds before they had the precise range and accuracy of our position,” Brett contributes.
“The numbers and expert training suggests outside influence,” George sums up, “as in, I don’t believe that this was your average Afghani Taliban unit.”
Tom pipes up, “It appeared that the leader and most of his troops were dressed in black. Was this an ISIS group? I thought your lot had taken them out?”
General Adams sighs, “It appears that a militant breakaway group from the Taliban have formed calling themselves Daesh-Khorasan. If you’re correct, it seems they are a lot larger than we suspected.”
“And they have expanded their active areas from the Pakistani border, where we have been concentrating our green berets efforts,” Kendrick admits.
“Their leader was vicious, he gunned down a family in cold blood after ordering them out of their home,” Tom reports with a haunted look in his eyes. “He was constantly moving and I couldn’t get a bead on him in time…”
Devon gently touches Tom’s shoulder. “We do what we can brother,” then continuing, “Our contact was clearly under pressure. I suspect the insurgents had his family hostage. My Dari isn’t that good, but he knew a little German and he alerted us that the leader was arriving soon with more insurgents. That’s when we started evacuating the village.”
“That wasn’t part of the operation,” Kendrick cut in angrily, “you were tasked with capturing the leader.”
“General, if I may say so,” George speaks up, “this operation was clearly flawed with such poor Intel, that a capture was a remote possibility at best. I have stated in the past unofficially, but now I want it on the record that we Kiwis should have total control of the missions we are assigned, instead of being treated as the hired help.”
