Fire Strike 7/9

by Paul Grahame Bommer

  There was a quiet, nervous tension as the lads gathered in the muggy darkness. It was boiler-room hot, even at this hour. It was especially sticky, what with all the kit we were carrying. The 2 MERCIAN lads were mostly in their late teens or early twenties. As they snapped their night-vision monocles down over one eye, I sensed a hunger to get out there and get in amongst them.

  The gates to the base creaked open. The atmosphere was electric. We were about to venture into the dense bush of the Green Zone, on foot and in pitch darkness, knowing the enemy were all around us. We’d had two good men killed fighting for control of this territory, and a dozen or more injured. We were about to walk into the fire once again.

  We filed past the front sangar — the sandbagged position at the gate — threaded our way down the escarpment and into the wall of darkness. No sooner had we hit the vegetation, than the air traffic started going mad.

  We had Naji, our regular terp, with us. Naji was a quiet but friendly guy, with a shyness about the eyes. He’d had half his family murdered by the Taliban, and he hated the Talibs with a burning vengeance.

  As soon as the enemy got on the air, Naji started translating. ‘Get up! Wake up! They’re coming in on foot! The Diamond Special Forces are coming!’

  I felt a shiver half of fear and half of excitement running up my spine. Apart from the scrunch of boot soles on gravel, and the suck and blow of our breathing, we weren’t making the slightest noise. And apart from the faint fluorescent glow thrown off by each soldier’s monocle, we were invisible to the naked eye. The enemy had to have night-vision. That was the only way they could know that we were coming.

  Diamond Special Forces — that was how the enemy referred to the 2 MERCIAN lads. The B Company boys sported a distinctive shoulder badge — a triangle of green over a triangle of red, making a diamond shape. It was their regimental flash, one designed to enable rapid visual recognition, and it had to be why the enemy had named them the ‘Diamond Special Forces’.

  If the Taliban had night-vision, the only real advantage we had over them was the air cover. I scanned the wall of undergrowth to either side of us. You could hide a bloody army in there. By all accounts the enemy had. And even with night-vision, you could stumble right over a well-hidden adversary before you spotted him.

  We were halfway to Alpha Xray and still Ugly had detected nothing. With its state-of-the-art thermal-imaging systems the Apache could detect a mouse farting at two thousand metres. But apart from the twenty-odd soldiers of our patrol, not a thing could be seen moving.

  We called a halt. The night-dark silence closed in on us, predatory and menacing. Sticky dropped to one knee right on my shoulder, his SA80 levelled at the wall of darkened vegetation. One of the 2 MERCIAN lads provided cover the other direction, with a string of lads to the front and the rear. I grabbed my TACSAT. It was time to try something different. It was time to flush the bastards out of hiding.

  ‘Ugly Five Zero, Widow Seven Nine.’ My whisper sounded like a scream in the crushing stillness. ‘I’m bringing the Bone call sign in. Move off to the south of the River Helmand, until advised otherwise.’

  ‘Roger,’ came back the Apache pilot’s reply. ‘Moving south of the river now.’

  The chthwoop-chthwoop of the Apache’s rotor blades faded away above us. I dialled up the B-1B.

  ‘Bone One Two, Widow Seven Nine. I want you to fly a show of force with flares over our position, and all up the Green Zone.’

  ‘Affirm,’ came the pilot’s reply. ‘Banking around now. I’m coming in at 2,500 feet. Stand by.’

  I smiled to myself. The massive stealth bomber would be coming down to around the same altitude as the one that had buzzed the camp commandant’s briefing, at FOB Price. If anything was likely to get the enemy on their feet and moving, this was it.

  ‘Running in now,’ the pilot announced.

  A few seconds later there was a roar like a tidal wave sweeping down the valley. For an instant this massive deltoid shape loomed out of the dark sky, silhouetted against the stars. And then it flashed past above, tearing apart the darkness and the silence with an earshattering violence. As the echoes crashed over the Green Zone, the pilot fired off a trail of blinding flares in his wake. Every soldier held his breath, as we waited for the enemy to react, or to show themselves. But as the echoes rolled away, not a thing could we see moving out there.

  I got the Apache back over us right away, but the Green Zone was a dead zone as far as the pilot could ascertain. A blanket of silence had descended over the terrain once again. But we knew the enemy were out there, and spitting-distance close. The air traffic was going wild with calls that they were visible with us. The discipline of the Taliban was incredible. It was spooky. It had me spooked, any road. They could see us. They knew we were here. But they were holding their fire.

  I got the B-1B down even lower, flying a second show of force, but not a sausage. By 0530 we were back at the gates of PB Sandford. Not a round had been fired at us, and we’d seen not a sign of the enemy.

  Back inside the base we reflected on what we’d learned. The enemy clearly had a plan of attack, and they were sticking to it. They were going to take us on at the time and place of their choosing. But like all good plans, theirs had to have a weakness, if only we could find it.

  I got my bracket down and managed to doze until around midday. I woke pooled in a slick of my own sweat. I was sleeping beneath a mozzie net, one that was sown into the camp bed to make a kind of pod. It was as hot and breathless as an oven. I struggled out, went to the well and doused myself awake. Time to get a brew on.

  At 1530 I got allocated air. I got a Dutch F-15, Rammit Six Three, flying recces over the Green Zone. The Dutch F-15s had no Rover downlink, but I had a pretty good view of things from up on my rooftop position — JTAC Central. The pilot had been flying search transects for twenty minutes or so when I got the call.

  ‘Visual with build-up of males of fighting age at Golf Bravo Nine One,’ the pilot told me. ‘Visual with male pax to the north-west of there, one-twenty metres from Alpha Xray at Golf Bravo Nine Zero. Male pax appear to have heard me, and are disappearing into the treelines. No weapons visible.’

  I had the GeoCell map spread out on the roof and weighted down with my fag packet and lighter. We had one group at Golf Bravo Nine One, three hundred metres due east of Alpha Xray. Another, hidden group was a hundred and twenty metres away from our lads. At the same time we were picking up radio chatter about the enemy being ready to attack.

  What did it all mean? The enemy had been harping on about being poised to attack us for days now, yet nothing much had happened. I passed what I’d learned from the F-15 to the OC, then lodged it away in the old grey matter.

  At last light I lost the F-15, which was low on fuel. Nothing more had been spotted, and all was quiet in the Green Zone. I was down by the Vector having a quiet smoke, and wondering what the hell the enemy were up to, when an almighty explosion rocketed across the Green Zone. It came from the direction of Alpha Xray.

  An instant later there were repeated, deafening explosions, followed by machine guns opening up on the base in a solid wall of sound. Almost immediately, there was the scything roar of the Gimpys on the rooftop position returning fire, joined by the mauling thump-thump-thump of the 50-cals.

  Alpha Xray was under siege, and meeting fire with fire. This was the big one. This was what we’d been waiting for. I got on the TACSAT screaming for air.

  ‘Widow TOC, Widow Seven Nine,’ I yelled above the battle noise. ‘Sitrep: troops in massive contact. Requesting immediate CAS.’

  ‘Roger. Stand by.’

  ‘Sticky, get a sitrep from AX,’ I yelled at him.

  ‘The enemy are hitting AX from four fire points,’ Sticky relayed the update from the platoon commander. ‘They’re taking fire from all directions.’

  Via Sticky, I got the platoon commander to describe those fire points. From what he told us, the enemy had to be in the woodline that the F-15 pilot
had spotted earlier. They’d made a fatal mistake. They’d shown themselves too early, and revealed their location to our eye in the sky. Now I knew where to hit them.

  ‘Widow Seven Nine, Dude Zero Five: inbound into your ROZ two minutes.’

  I had an F-15 powering in to the battle space. I radioed the pilot.

  ‘Dude Zero Five, Widow Seven Nine. Sitrep: troops in heavy contact at Alpha Xray. I’ll AO update once we’ve finished the attacks. Confirm you’re happy.’

  I didn’t have the time to bugger about talking the guy around the battlefield. All I wanted to do was pass him the GeoCell position, and get him smashing the enemy.

  ‘Roger,’ the pilot confirmed. ‘Happy with that. Just tell me where you want me doing the drops.’

  ‘First target is W-shaped treeline running north of Golf Bravo Nine Zero,’ I told him. ‘Enemy are one-twenty metres danger-close to friendlies at Alpha Xray.’

  ‘Affirm: visual with treeline at Golf Bravo Nine Zero,’ the pilot replied. There was a short pause. ‘Visual with muzzle flashes plus three heat spots running around in treeline.’

  ‘Roger — stand by. Chris,’ I yelled. ‘Tell the OC I’m going to smash enemy positions in the woods at Golf Bravo Nine Zero, then Golf Bravo Nine One.’

  Chris relayed the message to the OC, and Butsy said to hit them. The roar of the firefight was building to a climax, and I had to get the jet in. But with the airstrikes going in 120 metres, there was no way I was about to start dropping bombs.

  ‘Dude Zero Five, you’re clear to attack. I want you to hit the target on a south-west to north-east attack run, with a 20mm strafe. Nearest friendlies one-twenty metres west of target.’

  ‘Roger — ninety seconds out,’ came the pilot’s reply. A beat. ‘I’m visual more pax running around a compound, and firing from rooftop positions.’

  ‘That’s our compound!’ I yelled at him. ‘That’s us! That’s friendlies!’

  ‘Roger that,’ the pilot confirmed. ‘Visual friendlies. Call for clearance.’

  ‘Chris — sixty seconds for cannon!’ I yelled.

  Chris gave me a thumbs-up, and bent to his radio to pass a warning to all stations that the strafe was coming in. For a moment I considered running up on to the roof to get visual, but I knew there wasn’t time.

  ‘Dude Zero Five, Widow Seven Nine. I’m not visual your attack. Repeat: not visual. You’re clear hot.’

  ‘In hot,’ the pilot confirmed. ‘Engaging.’

  ‘Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrttttttttttttt.’

  For what seemed like an age the deep-throated growl of the strafe hammered around the walls of PB Sandford. I wished to hell I’d seen it go in. I needed to know he’d nailed the enemy and not hit our lads. Knowing that I’d sent him in blind — without eyes-on — the pilot came back with an immediate BDA.

  ‘BDA: I put a strafe three hundred metres down that treeline. Two pax confirmed dead.’

  ‘Roger. Good work, Dude Zero Five. Bank around south, and do an immediate re-attack on new woodline. Stand by for grid.’

  As I pawed the map, trying to work out the eight-figure grid for the next hit, the noise of battle was loud as ever. The next enemy position wasn’t identified by any Golf Bravo prefix on the map, so I needed to talk the pilot on and lock him on to a grid.

  ‘Next target is a south-east to north-west treeline. Bisected halfway by a shorter treeline at right angles, forming a X-shape. Grid is: 03759284. Readback.’

  The pilot confirmed the grid, and slaved his sniper optics to the coordinates.

  ‘Visual X-shaped treeline,’ the pilot reported. ‘Visual two males lain at the base of trees, with muzzle flashes.’

  I ordered him to attack, and cleared him in to do the strafe. The F-15 put a long burst of 20mm cannon fire into that second woodline, tearing the position to shreds. The pilot reported immediately that two more enemy were dead.

  Still there was a barrage of RPGs and machine-gun fire slamming into Alpha Xray. I got the pilot to bank around north and do an immediate attack on the third enemy position. I passed him the next grid, and gave him the talk-on.

  ‘Visual with three pax running up the east side of that woodland,’ the pilot reported. ‘They’re running away from your friendlies. Tipping in.’

  If the enemy were running, maybe the airstrikes were breaking their will to fight. The pilot put a long strafe into that wood, his third in as many minutes.

  ‘BDA: one killed,’ the pilot reported. ‘Plus I can see one pax dragging a wounded figure by his arms to the east.’

  ‘Roger: leave them,’ I told him. ‘They’re out of action. Scan the woodlines to the north of Golf Bravo Nine Zero.’

  ‘Roger. Scanning now.’ A short pause. ‘Visual with two pax with weapons on their backs crawling towards your friendly position.’

  ‘Attack from west any way you can to the east,’ I radioed the pilot. ‘Keep the strafe away from friendlies.’

  The F-15 came screaming in on its fourth attack run. The jet’s six-barrel cannon roared, saturating the woodline with high-explosive 20mm rounds.

  ‘BDA: two more dead,’ the pilot radioed. ‘Low fuel. Bugging out. Stay safe, Widow Seven Nine. Out.’

  As the F-15 left the battle space, the contact down at Alpha Xray was still rumbling and smoking. Just as soon as the jet was gone, the crack of gunfire and the ripple of explosions spiked. The enemy fighters must have realised that we had no air cover.

  Again, I was back on the TACSAT screaming for jets. I got Recoil Five Five, a Harrier, inbound four minutes. We’d improvised a staircase out of ammo boxes leading up to my rooftop position. I raced up to get eyes-on.

  From JTAC Central, I could see the sparking of muzzle flashes and the flaming kickback of RPGs. In spite of the repeated strafes, the enemy had Alpha Xray surrounded and were closing in. Where the fuck was that Recoil call sign?

  From below me Naji, our terp, started yelling out some intercepts of enemy comms. Commander Jamali was screaming for his men to press home their assault. With the skies above the battle clear of warplanes, they were to overrun their objective — Alpha Xray.

  ‘I’m in my hardened position!’ Jamali kept yelling to his men. ‘I’m safe in my hardened position! Push onwards with the attack! Overwhelm them!’

  I was standing on the domed roof scanning the terrain below. Where the fuck was this Jamali’s bunker — his ‘hardened position’? A round cracked past, whining off the mud roof. I guessed an enemy sniper was on to me. But the light was fading fast, and I didn’t rate his chances. In any case, I wasn’t moving. I ran my eyes across the Green Zone. Where was this Commander Jamali? Where was this bunker? Where in the Green Zone could his ‘hardened position’ be? If I searched hard enough, might I be able to sniff this Jamali out?

  As it happened, I was just a whisker away from nailing him.

  Seventeen

  TEA AND CRICKET

  Major Butt and Chris joined me at JTAC Central. We had a few hurried words about this Commander Jamali fella. He was clearly the big cheese in the area. We threw around a few ideas about where his ‘bunker’ might be, but we didn’t come up with anything definite.

  The Harrier checked in to my ROZ. I got him banked up to 25,000 feet, so the enemy couldn’t hear him. I passed him the search coordinates and got him scanning for enemy RPG or small arms firing points. As the pilot began his search, I flipped out my Rover screen and logged on to the downlink. The Harrier had some awesome avionics and night-vision capabilities. The terrain below the jet appeared on my screen in close-up, ghostly green detail. The hotter a heat source — a human form; a warm car engine; a recently fired gun barrel — the more it showed as a glowing shape picked out in fluorescent green.

  Chris and Butsy gathered round, our eyes glued to the grainy image. The battle was still raging, our lads and the enemy trading fire with fire. Tracer arced through the darkened sky, painting angry red lines across the valley. We just needed the Harrier to find those f
iring points.

  At 2015 I got the call.

  ‘Widow Seven Nine, Recoil Five Five. Visual RPG position north of the treeline at Golf Bravo Nine Two. Visual armed enemy pax on a compound roof at that position.’

  As he said the words, there was a flash of green like a water splash on the Rover screen — the blast of an RPG being unleashed at our lads. The glow of the rocket firing lit up the entire enemy position. On the south-west corner of the roof there was what looked like a sangar. Nine heat spots — human-shaped ones — were lying in and around it.

  ‘Recoil Five Five, Widow Seven Nine. I want you to hit that position with a thousand-pound JDAM.’ As I said the words I glanced at Butsy, who gave me the nod. ‘I want you in on a south to north run, and I want the bomb put through the roof of that building.’

  ‘Roger. Thousand-pound JDAM on a south to north run. Positioning. Stand by.’

  ‘Nearest friendlies three hundred metres to south-west. Call for clearance.’

  ‘Tipping in.’

  As the Harrier pilot began his attack run, the figures on the Rover screen ceased firing. We watched the glowing blobs grab their weapons, and disappear through a door into the building. They must have heard the jet overhead, and they were taking cover.

  ‘Sixty seconds out,’ came the pilot’s voice. ‘Call for clearance.’

  ‘No change friendlies,’ I replied. ‘I’m not visual your attack. Repeat: not visual. Clear hot.’

  ‘In hot,’ the pilot radioed. ‘Stores.’

  In the JDAM came, a low whistle from the direction of the Helmand River, rising over several seconds to a horrible, howling scream. It sounded like nothing else on this earth. It was like a B-1B pilot had gone kamikaze, and was flying his giant, supersonic bomber on a suicide mission into the heart of the Green Zone.

  As it hit, there was the violent, white-hot flash of the detonation, and the Rover screen broke up into a thousand shards of light. I lifted my head from the terminal, and the massive roar of the blast hit us. In the heart of the darkened bowl a fountain of fire erupted. It was like a volcano was vomiting red-hot lava and smoke into the night sky, flinging out burning rock and debris far and wide. For several seconds the entire scene was lit up an unearthly red, as the explosion plumed and boiled. Woodstrips, ridges, the trees lining Routes Crow and Buzzard — all were picked out in angry silhouette, giving me a rough idea where the JDAM had hit. I radioed the Harrier. It looked as if the strike was bang on target, but I had to be sure.