by Nathan Hook

Created on: January 13, 2009

"I owe you a beer, bro."

One of the first things I noticed about Afghanistan was the terrain; in particular the numerous mountain chains which loomed over the populated areas like silent sentries. There was a permanent air of austere beauty within the barren mountains. They sat in defiance against the summer sun and winds, which baked the lowlands and swept them with the detritus which blew up from dusty settlements. In the winter they adorned themselves with the shiny white coats only the tallest peaks shivered under during the warmer months. I chuckled quietly to myself as I drank in the sharp clean air sitting atop one of those large, dark precipices which overlooked a dank valley below me. It seemed one hell of a contrast: the pretty shores of Auckland and a Taliban controlled sliver of Afghanistan thousands of miles away.

"Hell of a view, eh, Smithie?" a bearded and bushy haired face poking its' way towards me whispered. I nodded my reply as he crept closer to my position and noticed him carefully carrying a mug of tea, which steamed softly in the crisp morning air.

"Cheers, bro." I whispered as he handed it to me.

"No worries, mate." he replied with a grin and lift of the eyebrows.

It was customary amongst New Zealanders, and Australians, to refer to each other as mate. The "bro" reference was common amongst the indigenous Maori people in New Zealand, but the courtesy was afforded to us white-boys too, in their presence. Once we got to know each other, we white-boys could flick the moniker back. Sonny, my Maori colleague, nodded in the direction of a small village which was isolated in the bottom of the valley. I shook my head, sipped my tea and quietly filled him in on the last few hours, as signs of life ricocheted as echoes out of the village and off the mountain walls.

Sheltering in the leeward side of a group of seriously steep hills, we'd set up shop in a strong defendable position which also afforded a quick exit if the proverbial hit the fan. I looked behind me to where the rest of the patrol was lying up. It was an unusual nine man team on this occasion. There were five of us Kiwi's, including an SAS officer who was in overall charge of the patrol, three American Navy SEALS and a CIA spook who was along to visual ID a Taliban big-wig we'd been tracking. By all accounts the big-wig was a nasty individual who enjoyed bullying and threatening the local inhabitants and a key player in the region. He remained allusive and our chance to snag him, or

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