Fire Strike 7/9 Read online

  Using a bomb crater as ‘cover’ was like a dog returning to its own vomit: bad idea. But the one thing I couldn’t understand was how the enemy kept getting into position at Golf Bravo Nine One without being spotted. One moment it was deserted, the next they were there, pounding Alpha Xray. Somewhere, there had to be a tunnel or a hideout.

  The following morning I got allocated a Predator for six hours solid. It wasn’t my favourite platform, but I’d not forgotten the Hellfire Thirteen strike, and I was determined to man it out. I got it over Bin Laden’s Summerhouse, and once again there were scores of males of fighting age all around it. Frustratingly, not one of them had a visible weapon.

  Next, I got it flying air recces over the Golf Bravos. I’d searched all the way down from Golf Bravo Nine Eight to Golf Bravo Nine One, and was just moving on to Alpha Xray. I wanted to give the lads there some stick about my being able to see them without their helmets or body armour on — just to let them know that they weren’t forgotten.

  But as the Predator cruised south-west I noticed something odd. Adjacent to the bald brown scoop of the thousand-pound crater was a tiny thread of smoke. I wouldn’t even have seen it had I not been studying the crater so closely. It looked like a cooking fire. But why on earth would anyone be getting a brew on in the middle of a blasted battlefield?

  The only person likely to do that had to be an enemy fighter. I got the Predator to zoom in on the thin column of smoke. At its base was a tiny, two-metre by four-metre mud-walled building. It had been totally covered by trees, until the JDAM had blown away enough foliage to partly reveal it. This had to be the entrance to the enemy’s hideout, from where they kept popping up to hit us. I felt certain of it. I just needed an excuse to smash it from the air. I got the Predator to pass me the ten-figure grid of the tiny, bunker-like building, and stored it away for later.

  Once I’d lost the Predator I got Rammit Six One, a Dutch F-16, into my ROZ. I passed the pilot the ten-figure grid of the bunker, and asked him to zoom in his sniper optics.

  ‘Rammit Six One, tell me what you see,’ I radioed.

  ‘Roger. Searching.’ There was a minute’s silence, then this: ‘Visual a tiny building, but only when banked off to the east. Obscured by foliage otherwise. There’s a small fire beside it.’

  So now I knew we had their hideout nailed. All I had to do was pass an aircraft those coordinates, and they’d be on to it.

  At 2030, just after last light, Alpha Xray got smashed again. Machine-gun fire was whipping out of Golf Bravo Nine One, plus an RPG team were hitting the base from a new position to the north.

  I got allocated a pair of Mirages, my least favourite platform. Top joy. The French pilots weren’t familiar with the area, so I gave them a full update, then requested: ‘Rage Three Two, I want a 500-pounder dropped on that RPG team to the north of Golf Bravo Nine One. Nearest friendlies to the south-west one-two-five metres.’

  ‘Negative,’ the pilot replied. ‘It is too close and I cannot drop ordnance.’

  ‘Shut up,’ I snapped. ‘We’ll just use you on a north–south attacking run, which’ll keep the blast away from friendlies.’

  ‘Negative. I ’ave never dropped this close to friendlies. It is beyond danger-close and in darkness, and…’

  ‘Break! Break!’ The pilot of the other Mirage cut in. ‘Widow Seven Nine, Rage Three Three. Visual twelve pax to the east of Golf Bravo Nine One, all with weapons, moving south towards Alpha Xray. Now going firm: grid is 04827436.’

  I confirmed the grid and checked my map. Those twelve fighters were now the nearest and single greatest threat to AX, and I wanted them smashed.

  ‘Rage Three Three, I want a 500-pound bomb dropped on that grid on a south-west to north-east attack run, to throw blast away from friendlies. Confirm.’

  ‘Negative,’ the pilot replied. ‘I cannot do the drop.’

  ‘Listen,’ I rasped, ‘every other platform in theatre has done drops this close and closer, so why the bloody hell won’t the both of you?’

  ‘It is just too close,’ the pilot replied.

  It was time to call their bluff. ‘Rage call signs, you are not up to task. I’m calling for replacement air.’

  ‘Widow Seven Nine, Rage Three Three. I will come in and do the drop, but first I need the ground commander’s initials, and your name.’

  ‘Ground commander’s initials SH. I’m Widow Seven Nine.’

  ‘No, no — I need your name, please,’ the pilot repeated.

  ‘I just told you, I’m Widow Seven Nine.’

  ‘No, I ’ave to ’ave your real name please…’

  By the time the French pilot had finished buggering about, half the heat sources had disappeared. I talked both jets in, got them to do four drops and winchestered them. It was six minutes after we’d started arguing, and they were all out of bombs.

  ‘BDA: we have killed nine enemy pax with the four GBU-38s,’ the pilot of Rage Three Two reported, sniffily.

  Frankly, I didn’t believe a word the Rage pilots were saying. I just wanted them gone and some different air above me. I got on to Widow TOC.

  ‘Both Rage call signs are fucking Winchester. The contact’s still hot, so now can I have some proper air?’

  The Mirages were ripped by Rammit Seven Three and Rammit Seven Four, a pair of Dutch F-16s. We hit a score of enemy positions danger-close and without any problems, and finally the contact died down to nothing. I went to my cot cursing the French pilots, and wondering how on earth we were going to smash that enemy bunker at Golf Bravo Nine One.

  At breakfast the following morning, Chris, Sergeant Major ‘Peachy’ Peach and I formulated a plan. I had air allocated for later in the day. I’d get it banked off to the desert in the south, where the enemy couldn’t hear it. I’d pass the pilot the ten-figure grid of the bunker, and Peachy would get in a WMIK and start driving. He’d head down Route Crow, pass Alpha Xray and keep going. Pushing onwards he’d hit the southern boundary of Golf Bravo Nine One. If his arrival didn’t provoke the enemy to open fire, he’d start malleting the bunker with the WMIK’s 50-cal. Just as soon as they opened up he’d reverse like fuck, and I’d get the air to smash the bunker.

  It was proper British tactics, and I had no doubt that the sergeant major would do it. He had bollocks the size of a horse. It was just his kind of thing, and reminiscent of the crazed mission he’d driven in the WMIK, when he rescued the three wounded men during the battle for Rahim Kalay.

  When the three of us put our plan for smashing the bunker to the OC, he just stared at us for a good long second.

  ‘I just don’t want to fucking know,’ he said.

  We guessed we’d got the go-ahead. At 1300 I had a pair of Dutch F-16s — Rammit Six One and Rammit Six Two — check in to my ROZ. I passed them the grid of the bunker. The Rammit call signs seemed happy enough with the plan of attack, but the pilots did query what would happen if the WMIK got bogged in or rolled.

  ‘If that happens we’ll abort the drop,’ I told them. ‘I’ll get you to do a low-level pass, as the lads make a run for it.’

  ‘Roger. Banking to the south now.’

  I gave Peachy the thumbs-up, and he set off in one of the WMIKs down Route Crow. He had a volunteer at the wheel, and was himself manning the 50-cal in the rear. I got the F-16s to stand off six nautical miles away, so around a minute out from target. I was up on the roof with eyes on, and Peachy was down around Alpha Xray.

  ‘You ready?’ Peachy queried over the radio.

  ‘Aye,’ I replied.

  ‘Right, I’m off,’ said Peachy.

  And that was it — he set off like the charge of the Light Brigade. From JTAC Central I could see the WMIK bucking and kangarooing over ruts and ditches, as it careered towards Golf Bravo Nine One. Fifty metres short of the target the bunker just seemed to erupt, as fighters swarmed out and opened up on the WMIK.

  ‘FUCKING CONTACT!’ Peachy screamed into his radio. ‘ENGAGE! ENGAGE ’EM!’

  As the WMIK slam
med to a halt and began a crazed retreat in reverse, Peachy was crouched over the 50-cal malleting the bunker.

  I dialled up the F-16. ‘Rammit Six One — I need you to hit that bunker now!’

  ‘What about your vehicle? Is it a safe distance?’ the pilot queried.

  ‘Don’t fucking worry about that, worry about the drop!’ I yelled.

  ‘Tipping in. Thirty seconds,’ the pilot warned me.

  ‘Thirty-second warning!’ I screamed at Sticky. Then at the pilot: ‘Friendlies sixty metres west of target — those lunatics in that WMIK. You’re clear hot.’

  ‘In hot.’ A beat. ‘Stores.’

  The GBU-38 five-hundred-pounder was on its way. It was now a race against time as Peachy’s driver gunned the WMIK, and the bomb came howling in. Just as the vehicle careered behind the HESCO wall at Alpha Xray, the JDAM slammed into the roof of the enemy bunker.

  There was a massive, blinding flash as it detonated, and an instant later the treeline erupted in a fountain of smashed walling, splintered tree branches and flying dust and shrapnel. The blast wave tore across the roof at PB Sandford, and as the smoke cleared at the target we were all eyes on the point where the bomb had hit. There was nothing left of the enemy bunker but a massive smoking hole. It had been completely obliterated. I didn’t need a BDA, but I did pass up a heartfelt well done to the Dutch pilots. With that Peachy drove back to PB Sandford.

  ‘Job done!’ I yelled at him, as soon as he was back with us. ‘Done ’n’ dusted. A fucking beauty, mate.’

  ‘They must be fucking wounded,’ Peachy grinned. ‘One moment they see the jets disappear, then there’s this lunatic suicide driver coming towards them, and they think — Fuck me, this is it! The next, out of nowhere they get splatted!’

  Peachy, Chris, Sticky, Throp and I were just congratulating each other on a job well done, when Sticky’s Brother came dashing over to us. He was so excited that he could barely get the words out.

  ‘New item on the intercepts,’ he announced. ‘Everyone keeps asking for Commander Hadin to check in.’ Sticky paused for dramatic effect. ‘No one is answering. No one!’

  Peachy and I locked eyes. Fucking hell. I could see why Sticky’s Bro was excited. It looked as if we’d just smashed the top enemy commander in the Triangle, the guy who’d replaced Jamil.

  And if we had, then Jason’s mad mission had been a proper peachy one.

  Twenty Six

  BAD NEWS FROM PIZZA PIE WOOD

  From that moment on the attacks from Golf Bravo Nine One ceased completely. There was a deathly hush over the Triangle. I guess the enemy had to be licking their wounds.

  Sticky’s Bro had heard Hadin speaking on the radio, so Peachy’s mad mission hadn’t killed him outright. But the Intel was that he was wounded, so we were halfway there. Plus the veteran Taliban fighters were twisting on about getting replaced. Like us, the enemy had a system of posting fighters for an allotted time, and then relieving them. I’m not too sure where they went for their R&R: probably the alcohol-free seventy-two Virgins Theme Park, across the border in Pakistan.

  It was a couple of days after Peachy’s mission when things started to get busy again. It was an oven-hot boiler of an afternoon, when one of the lads spotted an Apache coming out of the haze to the east of the valley. I got on the TACSAT and dialled up the pilot. We had a foot patrol halfway down to Alpha Xray, and if nothing else I wanted to make sure he didn’t mistake them for the enemy, and blast ’em.

  It was two American Apaches — call signs Arrow Two Three and Arrow Two Five — and they’d just been flying air recces over PB Arnhem. They asked me what I’d been up to, ’cause word was getting around that my call sign, Widow Seven Nine, had been busy. Then they offered me thirty minutes’ playtime.

  I got the pair of Apaches flying recces over the silent valley. For twenty minutes nothing was seen, so I asked the pilots if they’d do a low-level fly pass at PB Sandford. We wanted a cheesy photo of the FST with the gunships in the background. The American pilots seemed more than happy to oblige.

  We gathered the FST together, but left Jess sleeping in his bunker. We reckoned it’d be a great wind-up to deliberately leave Jess out of the FST photo. We got tooled up in our full battle rattle and clambered up to JTAC Central. We asked Paddy — an Irish lad who’d been helping out with the FST — to take the shot.

  I talked the pilots through what I wanted.

  ‘We’re after a good souvenir photo, with the four of us in line and you guys coming in from behind. Come in real low but to the west, to keep you out of the sun.’

  ‘No dramas,’ the pilot confirmed. ‘Banking around now.’

  As the Apaches thundered low across the bush, there was a sharp crackle of gunfire. Bullets went tearing past our heads. Rounds started kicking up the dust and dirt on the roof. We forced a line of cheesy grins, and yelled at Paddy to take the shot before someone got their head blown off. As soon as he was done we broke ranks and dived for what little cover there was. The lead Apache was passing over the Golf Bravos, and from below it a stream of fire tore upwards at the gunship. One half of my mind was thinking: Bollocks, that’s the end of our photo op. The other half was thinking that I’d better warn the aircrew.

  ‘Arrow Two Three, Widow Seven Nine: you’ve just been engaged by small arms fire from just to the south of Golf Bravo Nine Two.’

  ‘Roger. Stand by.’

  I cleared it with the OC to get the Apaches to fire warning shots, and radioed the pilot.

  ‘Arrow Two Three, Widow Seven Nine: I want you to fire warning shots at the position you were engaged from.’

  ‘No, sir,’ came the reply. ‘I am conducting my reconnaissance.’

  Fair enough. The pilot was obviously having a good look, and scanning for targets.

  There was a sleepy call from below us: What’s going on? It was Jess, fresh awake from his cot with all the gunfire. As he clambered up the steps he realised the entire FST bar him were on the roof all tooled up with guns, body armour and helmets.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he repeated.

  ‘Erm… We wanted a photo op with the Apaches…’

  ‘You were asleep, so…’

  ‘Didn’t want to wake you, mate.’

  ‘Reckoned you needed your beauty sleep.’

  Jess looked totally devastated. ‘You did the FST photo without me?’

  I was starting to feel a bit bad about the wind-up. There was a fresh burst of shooting from below. The second Apache was now taking fire. I radioed the pilot and told him what was what, and asked him to put down some warning shots.

  ‘No, sir,’ he replied. ‘I’m conducting my recces.’

  There was a call from the OC. ‘Bommer, what’s going on with those Apaches?’

  ‘Sir, they say they’re conducting…’

  Thump-thump-thump-thump… My words were lost in the pounding percussions of 30mm cannon fire. I turned to see Arrow Two Three spitting flames from its chin turret, and churning out a thunderous burst of rounds. At the same time there was a savage stab of fire beneath Arrow Two Five’s stub-wings, and two Hellfires were away.

  Fuck me. The Arrows were opening up with all they’d got, and we still had a foot patrol out in the bush. Not only that, but neither of the bastard pilots had cleared it with me.

  The US Apache pilots worked on different rules of engagement to our own, which gave them the right to open fire if they believed themselves to be under threat. They were taking fire, and they’d opted to return fire — but it would have been nice if they’d told me what their target was.

  ‘Bommer!’ the OC was yelling. ‘What the hell’s going on with those Apache?’

  ‘How the hell do I know?’ I yelled back. ‘I didn’t ask them to fire a bloody thing!’

  ‘Arrow call signs, Widow Seven Nine!’ I was yelling. ‘Arrow call signs, what the fuck are you two firing at?’

  ‘Wait out,’ came the reply.

  The pair of gunships were now no more than three hundred
metres above us at PB Sandford. They were going crazy firing cannons and Hellfires into the valley below. I kept calling for a sitrep, but all I ever got was a wait out. Spent 30mm casings rained down on us, as the pair of gunships let rip in one long, uninterrupted shooter-shooter burst.

  The lads were staring at me, as if it was my fault we had two lunatic Apache pilots shooting up the Green Zone. Within five minutes both gunships had winchestered their 30mm cannons, and only had two Hellfire left between them. I’d counted Arrow Two Three doing eleven runs with its cannon, and firing four Hellfire, and the other gunship was going in equally hard. I’d never in my life seen anything like it. Everyone kept yelling at me: What the fuck are the Arrows up to? I still didn’t have a bloody clue what they were shooting at, as the pilots weren’t answering me. Finally, the pair of gunships ceased firing.

  ‘Listen, Arrows, you pair of…’ I yelled into my TACSAT. ‘It’s my ROZ and you need to get bastard clearance! We’ve got a foot patrol out on the ground…’

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ the pilot cut in, ‘but we had thirteen armed pax in the treeline and we were flanking them so they couldn’t escape.’

  ‘Say again?’ I asked.

  ‘We’ve just killed thirteen males of fighting age,’ the pilot repeated. ‘We’ve killed thirteen minimum, and we need to bug out, ’cause we’re sippin’ on air up here.’

  ‘Well, cheers, but next time we work together let me know what you’re fucking doing!’

  ‘Affirmative, sir.’

  And that was it; the Apaches were off.

  I turned to the OC. ‘That was the Arrow pilots. They’ve just killed minimum thirteen enemy in the treelines south of Golf Bravo Nine Two.’