Fire Strike 7/9

by Paul Grahame Bommer

  Alan did the translation, and the terp started protesting: ‘No, no! I am innocent! I have been doing nothing.’

  ‘What the hell were you up to pacing out the walls then?’ we demanded.

  The terp had no way of explaining his actions, so John decided the guy would have to be sent to FOB Price, for questioning. We plasticuffed him, securing his hands with plastic handcuffs. John put the guy under guard in the terps’ room. He had his hands untied, but he was booked on the next helicopter ride out of there.

  After dealing with the dodgy terp I needed a brew. I got one on, then Sticky, Mikey Wallace and I went up on the roof to enjoy the view. I lit up a tab, and inhaled deeply. Down below I could see Jase Peach pottering about in the compound. Jase was an excellent bloke, and a top soldier. Recently, one of those parcels had arrived from well-wishers in the UK, with a consignment of pump-action water pistols. Jase, Throp and I had taken to hanging out at the well in the heat of the afternoon. Whenever someone came over to have a wash or a cool-down, we’d ambush him.

  Some of our victims didn’t find it very funny — but we did, every time. They’d come to the well for a good cool-down, so what did it matter if it came from the well bucket, or our pump-action water guns?

  I was just giving Jase a thumbs-up, ref the dodgy terp, when from out of nowhere there was a tell-tale violent burst of flame — a horizontal mortar flash aimed right at us. I didn’t need to see the black streak rocketing across the valley, to know that we had an RPG inbound.

  The three of us were down on our bellies in a flash and clinging on to the domed roof, not that it would help much — there wasn’t a scrap of cover anywhere. Not one of us had our body armour or helmets on, and didn’t we feel like bloody fools now.

  The rocket-propelled grenade came drilling in, its pointy head looking like it was dead on to smash us. At the last moment it veered slightly upwards, howling past a few metres above our heads. I turned to see it ploughing onwards into the desert. It detonated with a punching blast out in the midst of the emptiness.

  ‘Fucking hell,’ I kicked off. ‘I dropped me bloody tab.’

  I had. It was only half finished, and I could see it smoking away on the edge of the roof. As I wriggled forward to grab it, there was the sharp buzz-snap of a high-velocity sniper round ricocheting off the roof. It had gone right between where Mikey and I had been.

  Fuck me, was that close. We were off the roof like greased weasels and piling down the ammo-box steps, giggling our heads off. I still made sure I recovered my half-smoked tab though.

  ‘Fucking snipers,’ Mickey grouched. ‘That bastard better not’ve punctured my radar dome.’

  His weirdly shaped mortar-locating gizmo was stuck up on the roof right next to JTAC Central. Mickey stomped off to check on his computer that his radar was still working.

  I got word that the lads in the front sangar had spotted the position from where the RPG had fired. It had come from a compound bang between us and Alpha Xray, and a little to the east. I got on the air and dialled up some CAS, to see if we couldn’t catch that RPG team.

  I got sent Dude One One and Dude One Two, a pair of F-15s. I had them flying search transects all around the position of the enemy RPG team, but nothing could be seen. They checked out of my ROZ at 0815, low on fuel.

  I asked for more air, and kind of regretted it when I heard what I was getting. I had Overlord Nine Seven, a Predator, allocated to me for eight hours straight. The drone arrived in the overhead at 0900. I began a chat with the first American operator, knowing that I’d be staring into my Rover screen until 1700. I was ecstatic.

  Seven hours later I was on my fiftieth brew courtesy of Sticky, and I’d smoked ninety tabs or more. My eyes were like a cow’s udders, I’d filled up god only knows how many piss bottles, and not a sausage had we seen. It was 48°C in the back of the Vector and I was in my shorts and nothing else, but still I was sweating like a pig. Yet I didn’t fancy going up to JTAC Central until we’d nailed that bastard RPG team.

  I’d gone through three different controllers in Nevada or wherever they were, and I’d recced from Helmand to Whitby and back. I was not enjoying this. It was made all the worse by Throp and Sticky constantly ripping the piss. Each new American operator would start his shift with boyish enthusiasm, and I’d have to try to reciprocate.

  ‘Visual one male pax walking down a dirt path between two trees,’ the guy would announce, in his thick American drawl. ‘Can you see him?’

  In the background, Sticky was doing his best Yankee accent, mimicking the operator. ‘Say, you know, y’reckon we got us Osama Bin Laden his goddamn self?’

  I was trying not to laugh.

  It was on the tip of my tongue to say, ‘Yeah, that bloke on the path — he’s an Afghan farmer going home to have his dinner.’ Instead, I feigned interest and told the Predator operator to ‘keep a close eye on him’.

  Next the guy alerted me to being ‘visual two pax cooking their dinner’. I glanced at my watch: only thirty more minutes to go. At 1635 the operator announced he was visual with three pax walking down a track. I told him I was visual with them too. Then the three pax met up with three more pax, so now there were six.

  I hunched a little forward in my seat. The Predator was at 22,000 feet, so there was no way the six figures would be able to hear or see it. The six pax met with seven more, and now there were thirteen. This was starting to get interesting. I told the operator to keep with the thirteen pax, then shouted out the door of the Vector.

  ‘I’ve got thirteen pax two-seventeen metres east of Alpha Xray!’

  At that point Chris and anyone else who could squeeze into the Vector gathered around. The thirteen guys on my screen were all dressed alike, in black turbans and black robes. Not a weapon could be seen, but that didn’t mean a thing. The enemy were masters at hiding their guns until the very moment of attack.

  ‘Overlord Nine Seven, Widow Seven Nine: thirteen pax together like this is highly unusual. What can your analysts make out of those figures? I’m specially interested if any of them is carrying anything resembling a weapon, even if it’s hidden.’

  ‘Roger. Stand by.’

  Behind each Predator operator are a team of analysts who can rewind, pause, zoom in and flip the video images on a huge viewing screen. As opposed to our feed, they had the ability to scrutinise the footage in incredible detail.

  ‘Widow Seven Nine, Overlord Nine Seven: my analysts say that every one of those thirteen pax is carrying a concealed weapon.’

  What the fuck! I couldn’t see even the hint of a gun. But if they were all armed, we had thirteen enemy fighters moving ever closer to the lads at Alpha Xray.

  As I studied the grainy image on the screen, I saw one of the figures heft something under his robe higher on to his shoulder. It was a long, heavy weight, and it had the distinctive silhouette of an RPG. For an instant there was the glint of metal in sunlight from under the robe.

  ‘Freeze that frame,’ I yelled to the operator. ‘Check out what that is shining.’

  ‘Roger.’ A pause, as the tape rewound. Then, ‘It’s an RPG launcher’.

  ‘Aye, I reckon it is,’ I told him. ‘Stand by. Get the OC!’ I rasped to whoever was nearest

  I kept my eyes glued to the screen. The guy with the RPG started moving swiftly away from the main group towards Alpha Xray. Fuck. My instinct was screaming at me that they were massing to hit the base, and all I had on station was a lone Predator.

  I got the operator to widen the field of view, so we could track the lone figure and the original twelve left behind. The solo fighter led us to another group of men. By now there had to be thirty or more massing beneath the trees some fifty metres short of Alpha Xray. I got on the air to Damo Martin, back in the FCP at FOB Price.

  ‘Damo, I need immediate fucking CAS now,’ I rasped. ‘We’re TIC-imminent and I’m visual with thirty-plus armed pax about to whack our lads at Alpha Xray.’

  ‘Sorry, mate, there’s nothing availa
ble,’ Damo replied.

  ‘You’re fucking joking!’

  ‘No mate, there’s nothing. All available air is out on TICs.’

  ‘Damo, you’re not hearing me, mate: I really need some fucking air.’

  ‘OK, I’ll see what I can do. Stand by.’

  I turned to Major Butt, who was standing in the doorway of the wagon. ‘Sir, get on to the lads at AX and tell ’em to stand-to now. There’s dozens of blokes with RPGs and shit fifty metres short of the base, coming in from the east along Route Buzzard.’

  Butsy gave me the nod. ‘I’m on it, Bommer.’

  There was a squelch of static and Damo was back on the air. ‘Bommer, mate, there’s nothing. As soon as we have air, you’ll get it. But we ain’t got nothing now.’

  ‘Fuck it, we’ll use the Predator,’ I muttered.

  The trouble was we had scores of enemy to kill, and the Predator was carrying just the one Hellfire. Plus the males of fighting age were in two separate locations. I turned around to Sticky, Throp and Chris.

  ‘Lads, here’s the plan. Get the boys at AX to fire 51mm mortar rounds, but only smoke mind, three hundred metres beyond the junction of Routes Crow and Buzzard. The enemy will think they’re under attack, and bunch together. At least, that’s what I’m guessing. Before they realise it’s only smoke, I’ll smash ’em with a Hellfire.’

  There was no time for discussion, as the Predator had only fifteen minutes’ flight time left. As the lads got on the radio to the mortar team down at AX, I dialled up the drone’s operator.

  ‘Overlord Nine Seven, Widow Seven Nine: I want you to bank around to the south. But keep eyes on the enemy pax. Repeat: keep eyes on.’

  As I spoke those words my Rover terminal started to flash, warning me that the battery was about to die. Of all the fucking times!

  ‘Roger, banking around south,’ the operator confirmed.

  ‘OK, I want you to cue up for an attack run.’

  There was a pause. ‘Will you repeat that instruction, sir.’

  ‘I want you to cue up for an attack run using your Hellfire.’

  There was another, longer pause. ‘Sir, we’ve never fired the Hellfire before.’

  ‘I don’t care. You’re the only platform I’ve got and we’ve got friendlies about to be whacked. I need you to cue up for an attack run on those enemy fighters.’

  ‘Sir, who is clearing me for this mission?’

  ‘I fucking am — Widow Seven Nine,’ I rasped. ‘And we’re using your fucking Hellfire.’

  ‘Uh, sir, wait out.’

  I could hear the chat in the background, as a bunch of American couch potatoes ran around excitedly telling each other they were being asked to actually fire a missile in anger.

  ‘AX are ready to fire smoke,’ Sticky yelled over to me.

  ‘Fire on my order,’ I replied. ‘Chris, I need you to coordinate the mortars down at AX. I need them landing three hundred metres due east of AX on my call.’

  ‘No problem,’ Chris confirmed. ‘Just tell me when you need them in the air.’

  The bloody image on the Rover terminal kept crackling and fuzzing, as the Predator banked around. I kept thinking: we’re going to lose the bloody downlink, or my Rover screens are going to pack up, or the bloody Yank operator’s going to bottle out of doing the hit.

  I mopped my brow with the back of my hand, and willed it all to come together.

  ‘Overlord, this is Widow: are you ready, or what?’

  ‘Sir, are you certain I am cleared to fire?’

  ‘Too fucking right I am,’ I confirmed. ‘Chris — get the mortars in the air!’

  ‘Roger!’ I heard Chris give the order: ‘Engage with mortars on direction and target given.’

  A second or two later, the image on my Rover screen showed the bloom of an explosion two hundred metres beyond the enemy positions, just as I’d asked. As the mortar rounds hit and started gushing, a cloud of grey-brown smoke drifted lazily across the terrain.

  I saw figures running. The fighters were bunching together at the centre of their mass. More and more streamed in to that one position. The plan was fucking working! They thought they were under attack, and were grouping together to muster their response. But it wouldn’t take long for the enemy to realise it was only smoke rounds.

  ‘Overlord Nine Seven, you’re clear to fire on the concentration of fighters beneath those two trees.’

  ‘Sir, I need thirty more seconds,’ the operator replied.

  ‘You what?’ I practically screamed.

  Ten seconds of silence followed, each of which dragged like a lifetime. At any moment I was expecting the fighters to disperse, and to launch their attack on AX.

  ‘Sir, I’m ready now. Can you confirm I’m cleared to fire the Hellfire?’

  ‘Fucking right you are,’ I yelled. ‘Just fire the bastard thing! You’re clear hot. Engage! Engage!’

  An instant later the image on the Rover terminal collapsed into a pixillated mess. I guess the Predator had fired, and the kickback of the Hellfire had given the drone a massive speed-wobble. Either way, the image had gone to rat shit.

  ‘Have you fired?’ I yelled.

  ‘Affirmative,’ the operator replied, with something like real satisfaction. ‘One Hellfire missile is on its way, sir.’

  The image came back again. As it stabilised I felt my heart miss a beat. The enemy figures had disappeared.

  ‘Where the fuck’ve they all gone?’ I yelled into my TACSAT.

  ‘Sir, stand by.’ There was a pause of a few seconds. Then: ‘Sir, the enemy pax are underneath the two trees. My analysts can see at least twelve pax under the foliage.’

  With the Predator at 22,000 feet, I reckoned the Hellfire would take a full thirty seconds to reach target. All eyes were glued to the screen. Not a word was spoken, and I was holding my breath as the missile streaked in.

  For an instant there was the lightning flash of a black splinter streaking vertically through the screen, and then it hit. It was smack bang on target, the Hellfire ploughing into the earth right between the two trees.

  ‘Splash! BDA from analysts,’ the operator’s voice came up on the air. ‘Five have been killed outright. Many injured.’

  ‘Roger that, Overlord. Good strike.’

  ‘Sir, I have to leave your airspace. Low fuel. I have to leave.’

  Eight hours was the maximum air-time for a Predator, and I’d had him for seven-fifty as it was. I guessed the operator was shitting himself that his multi-million-dollar aircraft was going to run out of gas and ditch in the Afghan wildlands.

  ‘Roger that, Overlord. But keep your pod on the target area as you fly out of my ROZ.’

  I wanted eyes on for as long as possible. As I gazed at the image, four figures scurried into view. They laid a blanket on the dirt, and started piling something on to it. As I watched, I realised it was blown-up pieces of human being. It was body parts. It was arms and legs and chunks of human flesh.

  It wasn’t very pleasant, but it was either them or us, and this time the fight had gone our way. Three figures came crawling out from the trees. One of them lurched forwards on to the path, then lay completely still. I guess another was dead.

  I sent a sitrep to Damo Martin: ‘Widow Eight Two, Widow Seven Nine; one times Hellfire fired and five times KIA Taliban…’

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ Damo cut in. ‘You’re trying to tell me you’ve killed five enemy with one Hellfire.’

  ‘Listen, I used the Predator’s Hellfire and I’ve got the footage to prove it.’

  I had. It was another great thing about the Rover terminal: it recorded the images of the strike.

  Damo came back, ‘Bommer, if what you’re telling me is true, it’s bloody class, mate: I want a copy of that bastard footage by teatime.’

  The feed from the Predator was breaking up now.

  ‘Overlord leaving your ROZ,’ came the pilot’s voice. ‘Thanks very much, sir.’

  ‘Aye, it was fucking awesome mate.’ />
  ‘Yes sir, that it was. It was good working with you, sir. You stay safe down there, Widow Seven Nine.’

  ‘Aye, I fully intend to, mate.’

  I flipped frequency to Damo Martin’s. ‘ROZ cold,’ I told him, signalling that there was nothing more happening in my airspace right now.

  The chatter was going wild, as the enemy called for units to check in, but there were few if any answers. The OC was chuffed as nuts with that Hellfire strike. It was the first time the Green Army had ever fired a Hellfire from a UAV. To have done so, and taken out so many of the enemy, was one hell of a strike. The analysts in the US reckoned we’d killed seven outright, six were fatally wounded, and there were a lot more injuries.

  At a minimum it was thirteen to that one Hellfire, which wasn’t bad going. We reran the footage on the Rover screen, and more details became clear. The enemy had outlying sentries posted, some of whom were less than fifty metres from Alpha Xray. Even when they’d mustered under the mortar fire, those sentries had remained in their positions.

  It looked as if that one Hellfire strike had scuppered a big push on Alpha Xray. At 2000 hours I got a pair of Harriers overhead, and for two hours I had them flying search transects over the Green Zone, but it was deserted. I hit the sack and slept like a dead one until stand-to.

  Nineteen

  GET SNOOPY

  Chris kept twisting on about Sticky’s Snoopy key ring. The day after the Hellfire strike, he stuck his head into the back of the wagon. Sticky’s pack was on the seat, and there was the Snoopy dog hanging off the back of it. Chris stared at it for a second or two, then gave Throp and me the look.

  ‘Lads, I want something to happen to Snoopy,’ he announced. ‘Get fucking rid of it.’

  Throp and I looked at each other. Fair enough. Chris was the boss, after all.

  ‘Leave it with us, mate,’ I assured him.

  ‘Consider it done, boss,’ Throp added.

  We shut the Vector’s door, and I fished out a big black marker pen from my JTAC kit. The two of us proceeded to draw big black knobs all over Snoopy’s white fur. Then Throp unhooked it from the pack and dunked it in my urine bottle. That was it — job done.