Hellfire

by Ed Macy

  Nothing grew in this harsh terrain save the odd bush that had miraculously survived floods, sandstorms and salt. There was no shelter from the elements, no reason to live here even if you could. Only the nomads set up their temporary shelters here in the winter to feed the goats on the meagre green stubby bushes that popped up when the rains came. But now, in the height of summer, even the masters of survival found this place inhospitable.

  No wonder they’d named it Dasht-e-Margo, the Desert of Death.

  The mountains in the far north rose steeply towards the Hindu Kush, with little if any habitation away from the rivers that cut through them.

  The foothills, on the other hand, had good access to water. For thousands of years they had supported life. The Afghans had once irrigated the desert for food crops, but drought had shrunk their fields by 90 per cent. Cultivated land no longer stretched far from the major river wadis before it became unsustainable.

  The mountains meant the only way of travelling east or west at any speed in northern Helmand was south along the desert floor. A few miles north of Bastion was the only substantial east-west road, commonly known as Highway Zero One. The surrounding towns and villages needed to access it to get into the neighbouring provinces of Kandahar and Nimruz.

  The surface was so compact there was no need to turn the steering wheel to get to Highway Zero One. You just had to point your vehicle in the direction of your destination-north or south-and drive in a straight line.

  Two large hills stuck out of the desert floor in front and either side of us, like a pair of shark fins. The sea of sand just stopped at the foot of a sheer rock face which had been gouged into for shelter and to store the harvest. The big difference these days was that the caves and tunnels contained Taliban, weapons and ammunition.

  As I scanned the barren, featureless landscape below us, an icon flashed across my monocle-a stationary wheeled vehicle icon 5,700 metres away, prioritised by the Forward Control Radar as the next target to shoot.

  The powers-that-be had wanted to remove the Fire Control Radar to save weight. The Taliban didn’t drive about in armoured vehicles and tanks, they reasoned, so it would be of no use to us. Without it, they said, we could add more weapons and achieve a better performance. I begged to disagree; the best possible performance depended upon us detecting the Taliban as quickly as we could. The Longbow was proving to be a real winner in Afghanistan. It could even target a lone figure in the middle of a huge expanse of desert.

  My right eye placed the icon in the crosshair of the monocle while my left scanned the real world.

  Going by its size and shape, the vehicle was probably a 4x4.

  ‘Gunner-target-FCR-wheeled vehicle-stationary-range: five point seven-possible a 4x4.’

  ‘Stand by,’ Billy said. ‘Sensing.’

  Less than four seconds later: ‘On.’ He had the target visual in sight and no longer needed the FCR.

  I glanced at my right MPD. A white Toyota Landcruiser. Even at this range, it filled my five-inch black and white screen. It had stopped in the middle of the desert-not to launch a SAM but to change a punctured tyre. As Billy zoomed in a little closer we identified its occupants.

  ‘Good spot, Ed, disregard-4x4 Landcruiser broken down with women and children in it.’

  A good spot, indeed. The FCR had said it was a wheeled vehicle and that it was stationary, and it was right on both counts. When it came to finding needles in haystacks, the FCR was the king of kings.

  On one of my first flights across the desert it had detected a camel. The classification it gave to these ships of the desert remains a closely guarded military secret.

  The secure radio sparked up: ‘Wildman Five Zero Flight this is Wildman Five Two Flight. We are RTB.’

  No longer could 3 Flight hold on.

  ‘We’re out of gas and I think the Taliban are onto us. They kicked off big style at our chicken fuel point. I think they may have been listening to the CTAF.’

  Nick: ‘Copied.’

  ‘I can’t give you any grids because everyone is moving around so fast and the enemy are everywhere. They’ll be useless in the few minutes it’ll take you to get there. Good luck; we’ll be ready to RIP when you call for us.’

  The sudden escalation in hostilities at the time they were due off-station might not have been a coincidence. The Taliban listened to coalition transmissions on the Common Tactical Air Frequency. The Combined Air Ground (CAG) frequencies were also insecure; anyone on the ground could use them to talk to any air asset-or vice versa-in an emergency. They hadn’t ever been changed, as far as we knew.

  OPERATION MUTAY

  SUNDAY, 4 JUNE 2006

  As we flew through the hills twelve miles to the south of Now Zad, the distinctive bowl around it materialised through the dust and heat haze.

  ‘Holy smoke, look twelve o’clock, Billy.’

  ‘Oh my God.’

  Columns of black smoke towered into the sky, spreading to the east as they met the winds above the ridgeline. The town was aflame. A fast jet sent out a series of orange flashes, each one higher than the last, as it broke off its attack and pumped out flares as it climbed back to the safety of the ether.

  The fight or flight instinct kicked in and the metallic taste of adrenalin flooded my mouth. I fought the urge to urinate. My body was preparing itself for battle. My grip tightened on the controls. This was my first proper mission in an Apache, not just my first in Afghanistan.

  Time to rock and roll.

  Bring it on.

  With Nick’s mission radio down, we had taken the lead. It was not something we’d discussed in the air. It had been briefed during the planning phase and kicked in when necessary.

  I was the JTAC in our aircraft, and until Billy got used to FAC speak, I would be the one in communication with the JTAC on the ground.

  FAC speak was used to portray the ground, circumstances and type of attack required. Although not coded, it employed vernacular protocols with definitive meanings. Our training in Canada and the Oman had enabled me to get the best out of even the worst JTAC and with a bit of luck I could now show Billy the ropes.

  Widow Seven Two, in the main body of the attack, should have been alongside the attacking commander Major Pike and the CO Lieutenant Colonel Tootal. All I could hear between the hoarse breathing and the loud ruffling of the mic were the words, ‘Wait out.’

  I switched to Widow Seven Zero. Judging by Pat’s calls, they had been in the thick of it. I couldn’t raise them on the secure radios, but eventually managed to on the insecure CTAF. Now I understood why we’d heard so much earlier. Widow Seven Zero was breathless, too, as he told us they’d called in a US A10. It must have been the one I’d seen climbing away from the battle, coming in now on its next run.

  The jet screamed towards the ground, waiting for final clearance. The Taliban were firing out of the woods; despite their proximity, Widow Seven Zero decided to prosecute the target. They ordered the A10 ‘hot’-the executive command to fire live munitions-turned around and sprinted.

  The JTAC still had his mic on; my earpieces filled with the rippling, ground-shaking blast of the wood line exploding behind them. I felt my blood pulsing through my veins and every one of my senses on hyper-alert.

  We were still a couple of miles south of Now Zad when Widow Seven Zero finally caught his breath. ‘Wildman Five One, this is Widow Seven Zero, how do you read?’

  ‘Wildman Five One, Lima Charlie,’ I replied. Lima Charlie was FAC speak for Loud and Clear. I whacked the holds in so I could go hands free and grabbed my pencil.

  ‘We are receiving heavy fire from our south-east and need you to suppress the buildings at…standby for grid…’ He kept his mic open and I could hear someone reading it out as he relayed it to us. ‘Grid Forty-One-Sierra Papa-Romeo Three-Nine-Six Eight-Five-Two, copy?’

  Billy punched the coordinates into his non-qwerty keyboard as I scribbled. ‘Wildman Five One, Forty-One-Sierra Papa-Romeo Three-Nine-Six Eight-Five-Two.’
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  Widow Seven Zero was asking for us to engage the buildings beside the smoke. I was pretty sure what he meant but Now Zad was now full of the bloody stuff. My training had drilled into me: never assume; assumption is the mother of all fuck-ups. I needed more information.

  ‘We need to positively identify your location. Confirm you’re on the west side of the Green Zone, over.’

  I guided the Apache into an orbit over the western edge of the Green Zone and began to search north-west.

  We flew through a shaft of incredibly bright sunlight into the shadow of the biggest smoke column. Our world dimmed and I banked too tightly, taking us into absolute darkness. For a moment I felt as though we’d been swallowed whole; then we emerged from the belly of the beast once more, into the blinding sunlight.

  The stroboscopic progression of light and shade made it almost impossible to operate the TADS, but within a couple of seconds I found friendly vehicles with the naked eye, about a klick west of the grid.

  Billy confirmed and drove the TADS to the tower of smoke east of the vehicles, in an attempt to ID Taliban.

  Widow Seven Zero wasn’t with the vehicles-I’d gathered as much from his breathless running-and I couldn’t ID him anywhere near where the A10 had laid down its fire.

  The Widow attempted to describe his position but neither of us could identify it. My cueing dots led my gaze back towards the smoke; the acquisition source crosshair hovered over the burning building. Open fields stretched to the north-west; empty fields bathed in sunshine and criss-crossed by irrigation ditches.

  I asked if they had a mirror and, if so, to signal to me with it.

  A flicker of light immediately glinted in one of the ditches 250 metres away.

  ‘Visual standby.’

  The ditch ran north-south between two fields, one of which was black and smouldering from an earlier fire.

  I called, ‘Confirm that you are in a north-south irrigation ditch, in the middle of fields with a triangular compound to your west containing friendly vehicles.’

  ‘That’s correct. We’re pinned down, taking heavy fire from an area to the south and south-east of us. I need you to fire into a compound to the south-east of me by a couple of hundred metres.’

  I was in no doubt that they were in receipt of some heavy fire. I could hear the crack of the bullets flying over their heads on the radio, above the sound of their own fire. I relayed the Widow’s position to Nick and Jon and instructed them to watch out for the troops while we attempted to ID and prosecute the enemy.

  I walked the Widow onto the target I thought he meant. ‘Right in front of you I can see a burnt field…’ pause ‘…in the far corner of the burnt field is a compound with a smoking building in it…’ pause ‘…confirm that is the compound you want us to fire into.’

  ‘Negative. It’s south of there; it’s south by fifty metres.’

  The next compound down was the last to have line-of-sight with them before a densely wooded area. Another plume of smoke drifted slowly upwards from one of its buildings.

  I was flying an odd orbit just to keep eyes on the area. Jon was flying a much larger elliptical pattern below us, in the opposite direction.

  ‘Reference the compound just beyond the burnt field…directly on its southern edge…is one row of east-west trees…’ I paused long enough for Widow Seven Zero to get his head up out of the ditch and process my information.

  ‘To the south of the row of trees is a high-walled compound…it has a raised wall on the northern edge…there’s a building behind it…this building-which may look like a high wall to you-is smoking…confirm that is the target.’

  The Widow responded in an instant. ‘Correct.’

  ‘Where’s the target, Ed?’ Billy wanted to be 100 per cent sure. We were both keen not to fuck up our very first offensive action.

  I instinctively placed the crosshair in my right eye over the target building and called, ‘Gunner-Target-HMD-Target building low left.’

  Billy had already switched his acquisition source from the previous grid to my Helmet Mounted Display and pressed the slave button. Following every movement of my right eye, the TADS swivelled itself towards where I was focused. Billy scanned the picture the TADS was giving him on his MPD; I couldn’t look away until he was happy.

  ‘On…’ he said. ‘De-slaved.’

  The TADS was back under his control and not slaved to my eye; my gaze could now sweep wherever I wanted. I glanced at my MPD to confirm he had the correct target.

  I kept in tight to the target, a trick I’d learned in Northern Ireland. Whenever a helicopter circled directly above anyone who was in the wrong, they assumed the helicopter crews could see everything they were doing. They weren’t always right. The sky had very little in it, so a helicopter was blatantly obvious. The ground, on the other hand, was full of clutter: buildings, trees, walls, bushes, high ground, alleyways, low ground, deep avenues of trees, you name it. It was a huge expanse from our perspective, and pinpointing the enemy was like finding the proverbial needle in the haystack.

  ‘I’ll increase the radius of the turn to make it easier on the TADS,’ I told Billy. ‘We’ll fire a witness burst into the compound, just as we clear the smoke, starting ninety degrees out from the boys and finishing at the forty-five.’

  I was still nervous about this first shot. It was dangerous practice to fire over the heads of your own troops-or even point towards them in case the range information was wrong and the rounds went long or short of their intended target. That was why we were offsetting.

  Billy placed his crosshairs on the centre mass of the target building and I confirmed on my MPD that he had the correct target. ‘Widow Seven Zero, Wildman Five One, target identified. Ready with thirty mike mike.’

  ‘Widow Seven Zero-fire as soon as you can so we can extract to the west, over.’

  ‘We’ll kick off with a witness burst. I need you to confirm that we have the correct target. If we do, we will cover your extraction.’

  He acknowledged.

  Billy scoured the target for innocent civilians, but could see no one in the compound at all.

  ‘Clear to engage, Billy.’

  From a standing start to full speed in a quarter of a second, the M230 cannon thundered away beneath our feet.

  ‘Firing,’ I called. ‘Confirm splash.’ I wanted the JTAC to confirm that the rounds were landing in the right place.

  The cannon fired all twenty rounds in two seconds but I could still hear and feel every single one. The sheer brute force of the thing pushed the Apache’s nose to the right and twisted us, ever so slightly, left wing low. She regained her perfect orbit the second she stopped, with me following her on the cyclic.

  I called Camp Bastion. ‘Saxon Ops, this is Wildman Five One, engaging compounds with covering fire, out.’

  I looked out of my cockpit, low and left. The twenty rounds went straight into the middle of the compound, with no collateral damage. Billy’s firing was absolutely accurate, and more importantly still, so was the gun’s. The rounds kicked up enough dust to obliterate the view inside the compound but the Widow couldn’t see them land behind the wall.

  I asked Billy to change to a ten-round burst and go for the building instead.

  I transmitted, ‘Stand by for a further witness burst.’

  Then to Billy: ‘Clear to engage.’

  Billy squeezed the trigger again until the cannon had dispensed its ten rounds.

  I transmitted, ‘Firing now.’

  The rounds impacted on the target building, ripping holes in its roof and gouging into its sides. Even from this height I could make out slivers of rock and adobe blasting all over the place.

  ‘Negative, negative.’ Widow Seven Zero shouted. ‘Go fifty metres south-west. The enemy have moved; go fifty metres south-west.’

  As we flew over our troops I spotted a square compound with one single single-storey building hidden in the trees fifty metres further south-west.

  ‘Confirm th
e very next compound south-west of our fire is the compound you want us to attack.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ came his urgent reply.

  ‘Stand by while we set up.’

  I lined up the Apache to the east of the target, heading north, so I could keep an eye on the Widow’s position.

  Billy called, ‘Ready.’

  He let go with another ten-round burst onto the wall facing the Widow so he could observe the splash they made through the trees.

  ‘Firing now,’ I informed the Widow.

  The Widow shouted, ‘On target, on target’ the second we saw the rounds impact on and around the compound wall.

  Billy changed the burst rate back to twenty and unleashed two further onslaughts into the building on the north-western edge of the compound. I watched the boys break from cover then looked at the MPD to see what Billy could see.

  The rounds exploded with a ferocity I had never imagined. The training ammo we used was inert; these High Explosive Dual Purpose (HEDP) rounds were the real McCoy. I knew what they claimed to be able to do, but I was completely unprepared for what I saw. They were far more deadly than their name suggested.

  I saw the heat haze swirling behind the succession of little black dots that flew up the image and dropped onto the building. Each one produced an almighty flash as the armour piercing punched its way through roof and walls. Once through the building’s skin, the incendiary set the interior alight. Thick black smoke billowed from a small window like steam out of a pressure cooker. I could only guess at the effectiveness of the HEDP’s fragmentation. The blast should have sent red-hot shards of metal winging their way into every corner.

  Chunks of rock and adobe flew off the exterior and the courtyard entrance remained empty. Either there was no one at home or the frag was working big time. My money was on the latter; the Patrols Platoon had been able to get the hell out of that field without being engaged again.

  I lost my visual lock on them in the plantation to the south for longer than I was comfortable with. I couldn’t raise the Widow. Then I spotted them moving fast into an orchard to the south and south-west of where they’d been pinned down.