Apache

by Ed Macy

  I picked up a series of white shapes on my FLIR and zoomed in: four men stood in a group against the high compound wall. One had what appeared to be an RPG alongside him. Two others had a moped in front of them. A donkey flicked its tail disconsolately in the top left-hand corner of the compound, thirty metres to their west. I needed to confirm that this was the correct target, but there wasn’t a single unique identifying feature.

  ‘Knight Rider, Ugly Five One. Can you confirm the target precisely?’

  ‘Ugly Five One, Knight Rider. I am told there are people in the north-east corner of the compound. You are cleared hot on those people.’

  Yes, but who was telling him all this? And was I definitely looking in the right compound? Knight Rider couldn’t know; he didn’t have eyes on. The targets were getting progressively further from the main Taliban base. I didn’t want to open up on third party information without better clarification. If I was going to kill, I needed to be 100 per cent sure.

  ‘Ugly Five One. I need something to hang my hat on. Can you give me more information on the target?’

  ‘Ugly Five One, this is Knight Rider Five Six. Higher has cleared you hot onto that target.’

  ‘Ugly Five One. Give me a unique feature or tell me who’s buying my weapons. I must confirm that we are both looking at the same target.’

  ‘Ugly Five One, this is Maverick Zero Bravo. How do you read?’

  Maverick Zero Bravo? Who the hell was that? No callsign I’d ever come across. The voice was short and clipped, its nationality indistinguishable; I put the accent as mid-Atlantic at best. I flicked through the top pages of my Black Brain; no joy there. Maverick wasn’t a callsign we’d been given for the operation. But it was impossible for him to be on the secure net if he wasn’t authorised so he had to be 100 per cent bona fide.

  ‘Maverick Zero Bravo, Ugly Five One. Lima Charlie. You, me?’

  ‘Maverick Zero Bravo. Lima Charlie also. Stand by … Can you see the donkey in the north-west corner of that compound?’

  ‘Ugly Five One. Affirm.’ But that didn’t mean a thing. Everyone had a bloody donkey!

  ‘Maverick Zero Bravo. Another man will join the four in the compound,’ the clipped voice continued. ‘He will walk past the donkey.’

  Sure enough, a fifth man appeared a few seconds later and walked behind the donkey to join his companions. Bloody hell, that’s clever. It was good enough for me. Whoever and wherever he might be, Maverick Zero Bravo must have been controlling the Predator feed. He must have been ‘Higher’.

  ‘Ugly Five One will prosecute that target with rockets; stand by.’

  ‘Bring her in Carl; we’re going to use Flechettes.’

  Carl rolled us out, pointed the nose north-east and began to line up early. I actioned the rockets. The steering cursor flashed up on my screen.

  ‘Four rockets. Come co-op, Carl.’

  I positioned the crosshairs over the group of five and began to lase.

  ‘Match and shoot, Carl.’

  ‘Match and shoot … Stand by.’

  ‘Ugly Five One. Engaging with rockets.’

  Carl steadied the rocket steering cursor on the crosshairs as the fifth man approached the moped.

  ‘Firing … Good set.’

  Four bright orange flashes and four rockets whipped towards the centre of the crosshairs on the MPD. They looked good. Less than a thousand metres out, the white-hot cradles that had held the Flechette darts inside the rocket broke away, twisting and jinking through the air as the darts themselves flew at near hypersonic speed towards the target. Two seconds later 320 searing pinpricks blossomed across the north-eastern corner of the compound and its far wall. The five men hit the deck; we needed to nail them big time before they got busy with the RPG.

  ‘Smack on, Carl. Don’t break, we’re going for another four. Match and shoot.’

  The rules stated that after one volley of rockets we must change heading to avoid colliding with the Flechette cradles. I was utterly mission focused; they were no longer a factor. I’d seen them drop off the screen.

  Carl let rip again from 1,500 metres. The second concentration was even tighter – a ten-metre circle, max.

  ‘Good work, buddy. And another four.’

  Carl pulled the final trigger at 1,100 metres.

  The second the rockets streaked past our windows I flicked up for gun. Three final bursts from the cannon – slightly offset – would finish the job.

  We had flown through the wake of twelve rockets and the environmental control system couldn’t handle the pollutant saturation. The acrid stink of rocket propellant seeped into the cockpit and burned into my nasal membrane. A few seconds later, we were almost over the compound. I zoomed in the FLIR for a thorough battle damage assessment (BDA).

  The moped was in pieces, and the RPG launcher broken in two, with its warhead still in place. Where the five men had been, there were heat sources galore across the ground and wall, but none in any recognisable human shape. I found another heat source scanning left, but still standing on four legs and looking okay. The donkey had escaped unscathed, but the five men had been shredded.

  ‘Good arrows, good arrows,’ Maverick Zero Bravo purred.

  ‘Ugly Five One, target destroyed.’

  ‘Ugly Five Zero, target destroyed also.’

  Knight Rider had been waiting in line. The Nimrod had pinged enemy movement in two long sheds east of the canal, 500 metres north of our original target. It was a perfect job for Bone, but Bone had a more pressing engagement with an airborne fuel tanker.

  I picked up the frustration in the BRF JTAC’s voice. He couldn’t see any of these new targets. He had become a relay station for the eyes of others. At least he no longer had to whisper.

  It was our third new target. There were clearly even more Taliban down at Koshtay than the recce had established. They hadn’t just confined themselves to the central complex; they’d spread their tentacles into the adjoining compounds too. The whole kilometre-square neighbourhood was a seething mass of Taliban.

  ‘Five One is out of Hellfires.’

  ‘Five Zero. Copied. You check out the original target for movement and I’ll take on this target. All buildings in the chisel have gone. No leakers.’

  The Boss and Billy stuck their final two Hellfires into the sheds whilst we surveyed the area of the battle. There were no leakers; the place was finally silent.

  I checked the clock: 4.54am. I brought up my Hellfire Shot at page on the MPD. Hellfire 01 struck the target at 23:52:02 Zulu – 4.22am. We’d been fighting solidly for thirty-two minutes. And we were almost out of combat gas.

  ‘Knight Rider, Ugly Five Zero. Ugly callsigns have five minutes left on station. Is there anything else you want us to do?’

  ‘Ugly callsigns, Knight Rider. Affirmative. RTB, rearm and refuel. We have more intelligence. Callsign Bone One Three is coming back on station any minute to hit more targets for Higher. We’ll need you back down as soon as you can.’

  We’d put down twelve Hellfires, twelve rockets and 360 cannon rounds; an Apache record for one sortie. And still they wanted more. It couldn’t get any better.

  A GOOD NIGHT’S WORK

  We flew a fifty-four-mile straight line back to Camp Bastion, taking us right past the Garmsir District Centre and over huge stretches of the Green Zone. We radioed back a list of what we needed and Kev and his boys were waiting with it all in the arming bays.

  It was like a Formula One pit stop: fuel first, then 30-mm, rockets and six Hellfires loaded simultaneously. It was all hands to the pump. At one point I spotted Kev carrying a 100-lb missile on his own; I could have sworn he was smiling. They worked their socks off and got us out of there in twenty-five minutes.

  More than three hours in the cockpit normally made me feel as though I was sitting on a bag of golf balls, but tonight I seemed immune from it. Perhaps it was because I’d never sat still; it had been a roller coaster of a ride.

  All four of us were on an incredib
le high during the transit there and back. In his usual modest fashion, Billy texted us his Distinguished Flying Cross citation for the mission – par for the course when he thought a sortie had gone even moderately well.

  The secure text messaging system had only four lines of text and 176 character spaces. He used them all:

  4 GALLANTRY LEADERSHIP + AMAZIN FLYING SKILL

  HEROICS ON AAC 1ST DEEP RAID 4 KEEPING BOSS

  CALM WHEN HE GOT TOO EXCITED THE DFC GOES TO

  WARRANT OFFICER CLASS 1 WILLIAM SPENCER AAC

  We checked in on station over Koshtay at 6.14am and it was as dark then as it had been when we left.

  In the eighty minutes we’d been away the geography of the battlefield had changed yet again. Maverick had obviously wanted more work done. Judging by the size of the heat splash on the ground, it looked like the B1 had plonked a 2,000-pounder bang in the middle of it. It must have been a super-quick fuse too. All the buildings in the compound where Maverick had asked me to engage the five Taliban had disappeared. There was nothing left; no heat sources whatsoever.

  ‘Looks like it was curtains for the donkey, buddy.’

  Knight Rider Five Six and his small party from the Brigade Recce Force had withdrawn. They couldn’t risk hanging around in the middle of an enemy-controlled area of the Green Zone in daylight.

  Maverick Zero Bravo appeared to have knocked off for the night too, now the back of the Taliban in Koshtay had been broken. The Nimrod MR2 – callsign Wizard – was spotting for targets with his equally powerful cameras instead. It had already directed Bone One Three to drop 2,000-pounders on the Boss’s sheds, but Bone had pulled off station again.

  The Boss tried to speak to Wizard and couldn’t get a peep out of him. We knew Lashkar Gah would have the downlink, but we were too far away to establish comms with them. We’d had a satellite phone fitted to our version of the Apache for just such an occasion. Trigger dialled up the JTAC at Brigade HQ in Lashkar Gah, Widow Seven Zero. With no conference facility, Billy relayed the call to Carl and me.

  ‘Ugly Five One, Five Zero. The Boss has got Widow Seven Zero on the bat-phone in Lash. He has fresh targets from Wizard; stand by for talk on.’

  I followed the irrigation ditch south-east from the chisel-shaped compound for 300 metres.

  ‘Five One has a large compound on the south-west side and two smaller compounds on the north-east side of the ditch, approximately fifty metres beyond the footbridge.’

  ‘Five Zero. Affirm. Wizard watched injured Taliban making their way across the bridge towards those compounds. You take all the buildings on the south-west of the ditch; we’ll take the east.’

  The sky began to lighten as Billy and Carl put us in broad orbits above the compounds. As Carl and I came round, I saw two smart-looking 4x4s parked a few hundred metres down a dirt track which ran alongside the ditch. That was a Taliban indicator if ever there was one; a local could never have afforded one. Either reinforcements were arriving or, more likely, they’d come to collect their wounded.

  ‘Stand by, Carl. I think we might have a shoot on here.’ I had the gun and the crosshairs ready. I saw a flicker of movement on the canal side of the compound. ‘East a bit more, buddy.’

  As we cleared the eastern wall, two men were trying to get inside the place. They had left what looked like a locked gate near the canal and staggered along the wall, looking for an opening. One was holding up the other, and they scrabbled about, increasingly desperate to find another entrance. Neither seemed to have weapons on them. I hit zoom as they drew level with the building on the inside of the compound.

  The one being carried had clearly been in the battle earlier; the heat stains on his head and tattered clothing must have been blood. He appeared only to have one arm and his left foot was missing. Squirming like trapped rats, they were a truly pathetic sight.

  Then I spotted an RPG launcher and an AK47 fifteen metres behind them, on the ground, just short of the ditch. They must have dropped them when they heard our rotor blades. So they knew the drill.

  ‘Ugly Five Zero, Ugly Five One. I have eyes on two Taliban trying to get into the first compound on the west side of the ditch. Confirm clear to engage.’

  ‘Ugly Five Zero. Affirm. Widow has cleared us to engage any targets and all buildings with Taliban sheltering in them.’

  The duo was bang in the centre of my crosshairs, but I hesitated. My cannon rounds would chew up the house on the other side of the wall for sure, along with whoever was inside it. I had clear orders, but I couldn’t bring myself to pull the trigger. I kept thinking: what if it was my kids in there?

  All I needed was for them to give me a few more feet … They finally found the gate and scuttled inside. They stayed as close to the wall and then the house as they could, desperate for somewhere to hide.

  It was a typical Afghan compound, forty metres long and twenty-five wide, with a floor of hard-packed dirt, divided in two by the house where it extended from the eastern wall. Behind it was a solid stone oven and a chicken coop, a big stack of firewood, cooking pans, matting, a goat and a toilet. The other half was empty.

  The uninjured fighter pushed against the first of the house’s three doors, but it didn’t move an inch. Struggling to keep his companion upright, he eventually managed to bounce him along the wall to the next one. It too was locked.

  I would finish them as they rounded the corner if the last door was also impassable; Carl put me in position to do so with minimum collateral damage. As they hobbled towards it, the injured man collapsed; he’d probably passed out. Could I fire? Shit, no, not quite – they were within a metre of the house and it was guaranteed to get some of my splash. This fucker knew what he was doing. I stuck my crosshairs on him like glue. He banged hard on the third door.

  I could now make out the building with my naked eye. Dawn hadn’t quite broken and there was no colour in my vision, but I could see the two fugitives increasingly clearly. The door opened and he pulled his unconscious comrade inside by the shoulders, leaving a trail of blood in their wake.

  Ten seconds later, five children of varying sizes burst out of the same door and huddled together in the open courtyard. They were afraid of being outside, but clearly didn’t want to go back in. They stared at the doorway and suddenly began pushing each other into line. The smallest one clung to the tallest and wouldn’t let go. The others were clearly agitated. They must have been receiving orders from inside the house.

  As dawn broke they looked up at us in unison and waved madly. I zoomed in tight on their faces. Their ages ranged from about two to perhaps twelve. And every single one of them was terrified.

  ‘Look at your TADS screen, Carl.’

  ‘I’m seeing it. Scum of the earth.’

  ‘Carl, that scum is using innocent kids as a shield to protect his sorry arse.’

  The children shuffled back to the door and stopped outside it. As we swarmed, they followed our every move. Every orbit we did saw each of them turn with us. I told the Boss what was happening.

  ‘Ugly Five Zero. Wizard’s orders are to destroy any building with Taliban occupants. But I am instructing you: Do not engage that house.’

  I had no intention of doing so. Our ROE were simple. We’d kill any amount of Taliban, but never at the risk of even one innocent life. The Boss informed the Widow that he was not prepared to authorise the engagement of our target as he had better situational awareness than they did. Good man.

  The wounded Taliban was as good as dead, if he wasn’t already. His companion was too savvy to come out into the open until we were long gone. I looked forward to meeting him another day.

  It was now three-quarters light. A deep red dawn filled the eastern horizon, and the sun would begin to pop up out of the Red Desert at any minute. We swarmed over the compounds up and down the irrigation ditch for a few minutes more and I poked my TADS inside it, hunting for survivors.

  The more I looked, the more I realised we wouldn’t be putting any more rounds do
wn that morning. The daily routines were beginning to re-establish themselves: women carried bowls out of their houses; teenagers fed goats and started fires. The men stayed indoors while we were overhead, terrified they’d get mistaken for Taliban.

  ‘Ugly Five One is seeing a normal pattern of life here and negative targets.’

  ‘Five Zero. Copied; my thoughts too. I’ll inform Lash that we can’t engage any of these targets due to civilians. Let’s sweep the initial target and conduct some Battle Damage Assessment.’

  Carl swung us west, back to the main Taliban complex, to film the battle’s aftermath with our TADS cameras for the battlegroup to analyse. The first rays of sunlight dusted everything below us a delicate pink, then bright, flaming orange as the sun’s crest popped over the horizon. I looked out of my right-hand window as we passed over the complex. It was only then that I realised the full extent of the devastation we’d caused.

  It looked like the old pictures of Hiroshima. The earth was still smouldering; the wisps of battlefield smoke hung low in the chill morning air, giving the place a strange, dreamlike quality. The trees that had survived were charred and skeletal. The huts we’d Hellfired were mounds of darkened rubble; the 2,000- and 500-pounders had reduced everything in their path to powder.

  Trigger’s leaker lay where he’d fallen, the huge hole in his chest now a dark ring. His first sentry was still slumped in his guardhut, but the one hiding behind the tree hadn’t died immediately; he’d crawled nearly forty metres towards the mosque.

  ‘Check out east, Ed. Here comes the burial party.’

  A long line of women and a few unarmed men began to fan out from the far irrigation channel and made their way slowly towards the complex. We’d seen this before. After a battle, the Taliban forced the locals to scour the ground for their dead. One or two members of the burial party were probably Taliban directing the operation; they knew they were safe as houses.

  Behind them two local women emerged from a domed wicker hut, halfway up the path where I’d gunned down the runner. A jumble of legs and feet stuck out of its arched entrance. They must have been piling up the corpses inside. A man in a black dishdash ducked down and crawled into the hut. When he backed out he wiped his hands on the ground before he stood up.